Anna  Maria  CoHege  Library 

FEIENDS  AND  NEIGHBOURS; 


OK, 


CMCX"V  f    CV/T)*f  *  *          J  Y          CM^VV        IV 

mm  of  Jrag  m  i|e  SHorlb. 


EDITED  BY 

T.    S.   ARTHUR. 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN    W.    LOVELL    COMPANY 
150  WORTH  STREET,  CORNER  MISSION  PI.ACB; 


Copyrighted  by 
HUBBARD  BROTHERS. 

1888. 

1211 


F 
A71I 


PREFACE. 


WE  were  about  preparing  a  few  words  of 
introduction  to  this  volume,  the  materials  for 
which  have  been  culled  from  the  highways  and 
byways  of  literature,  when  our  eyes  fell  upon 
these  fitting  sentiments,  the  authorship  of  which 
we  are  unable  to  give.  They  express  clearly  and 
beautifully  what  was  in  our  own  mind  : — 

"  If  we  would  only  bring  ourselves  to  look  at  the 
subjects  that  surround  us  in  their  true  light,  we 
should  see  beauty  where  now  appears  deformity, 
and  listen  to  harmony  where  we  hear  nothing 
but  discord.  To  be  sure  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  vexation  and  anxiety  in  the  world ;  we  cannot 
sail  upon  a  summer  sea  for  ever ;  yet  if  we  pre- 
serve a  calm  eye  and  a  steacty  hand,  we  can  so 
trim  our  sails  an4  manage  our  helm,  as  to  avoid 
the  quicksands,  a,ncl  weather  tfie  storms  thai 


2200502 


IV  PREFACE. 

threaten  shipwreck.  We  are  members  of  one 
great  family ;  we  are  travelling  the  same  road, 
and  shall  arrive  at  the  same  goal.  We  breathe 
the  same  air,  are  subject  to  the  same  bounty,  and 
we  shall  each  lie  down  upon  the  bosom  of  our 
common  mother.  It  is  not  becoming,  then,  that 
brother  should  hate  brother;  it  is  not  proper  that 
friend  should  deceive  friend ;  it  is  not  right  that 
neighbour  should  deceive  neighbour.  We  pity 
that  man  who  can  harbour  enmity  against  his 
fellow ;  he  loses  half  the  enjoyment  of  life  ;  he 
embitters  his  own  existence.  Let  us  tear  from 
our  eyes  the  coloured  medium  that  invests  every 
object  with  the  green  hue  of  jealousy  and  suspi- 
cion; turn  a  deaf  ear  to  scandal;  breathe  the 
spirit  of  charity  from  our  hearts ;  let  the  rich 
gushings  of  human  kindness  swell  up  as  a  foun- 
tain, so  that  the  golden  age  will  become  no  fiction, 
and  islands  of  the  blessed  bloom  in  more  than 
Hyperian  beauty." 

It  is  thus  that  friends  and  neighbours  should 
live.  This  js  the  right  way.  To  aid  in  the 
creation  of  such  true  harmony  among  men,  has 
the  book  now  in  your  hand,  reader,  been  com- 
piled. May  the  truths  that  glisten  on  its  pagoa 
be  clearly  reflected  in  your  mind ;  and  the  errors 
it  points  out  be  shunned  as  the  foes  of  yourself 
and  humanity. 


CONTENTS. 


GOOD  iw  An Page  7 

HUMAN  PROGRESS 12 

MY  WASHERWOMAN 15 

FORGIVE  AND  FORGET '20 

OWE  NO  MAN  ANYTHING '21 

RETURNING  GOOD  FOR  EVIL .  84 

PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET               .  88 

KIND  WORDS 64 

NCUIHBOURS'  QUARRELS 58 

GOOD  WE  MIGHT  DO 61 

THE  TOWN  LOT 62 

THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  RAINDROP 73 

A  PLEA  FOR  SOFT  WORDS 74 

MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS 82 

ROOM  IN  THE  WORLD 90 

WORDS 91 

THE  THANKLESS  OFFICE .  96 

LOVE 103 

••EVERY  LITTLE  HELPS" 104 

LITTLE  THINGS 104 

CARELESS  WORDS 105 

How  TO  BE  HAPPY 114 

CHARITY — ITS  OBJECTS    .        .         ,         .        .        .        .        .110 

THE  VISION  OF  BOATS 123 

REQUISITION  OF  THE  TEMPS*  .                .  125 


VI  CONTENTS. 

MANLY  GENTLENESS          ........  130 

SILENT  INFLUENCE    189 

ANTIDOTE  FOR  MELANCHOLY 147 

THE  SORROWS  OF  A  WEALTHY  CITIZEN 153 

«'  WE'VE  ALL  OUR  ANGEL  SIDE"       ......  164 

BLIND  JAMES    .        .        .        . 166 

DEPENDENCE  .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    •    .183 

Two  RIDES  WITH  THE  DOCTOR        .        .        .        .        .        .198 

KEEP  IN  STEP 209 

JOHNNY  COLE 211 

THE  THIEF  AND  HIS  BENEFACTOR 221 

JOHN  AND  MARGARET  GREYLSTON    ......  225 

THJS  WORLD  WOULD  BE  THE  BETTER  FOR  IT    .        .        .        .  253 

Two  SIDES  TO  A  STORY 254 

LITTLE  KINDNESSES 265 

LEAVING  OFF  CONTENTION  BEFORE  IT  BE  MEDDLED  WITH         .  268 

"  ALL  THE  DAY  IDLE" 274 

THI  BUSHEL  OF  CORN      . 275 

THE  ACCOUNT .        .  289 

CONTENTMENT  BETTER  THAN  WEALTH 290 

EAUBOWS  EVERYWHERE 398 


FRIENDS  AND  NEIGHBOURS. 


GOOD   IN  ALL. 

THERE  is  GOOD  IN  ALL.  Yes  !  we  all  believe  it :  not 
a  man  in  the  depth  of  his  vanity  but  will  yield  assent. 
But  do  you  not  all,  in  practice,  daily,  hourly  deny  it  ? 
A  beggar  passes  you  in  the  street :  dirty,  ragged,  im- 
portunate. "Ah  !  he  has  a  bad  look,"  and  your  pocket 
is  safe.  He  starves — and  he  steals.  "  I  thought  he 
was  bad."  You  educate  him  in  the  State  Prison.  He 
does  not  improve  even  in  this  excellent  school.  "  He 
is,"  says  the  gaoler,  "thoroughly  bad."  He  continues 
his  course  of  crime.  All  that  is  bad  in  him  having  by 
this  time  been  made  apparent  to  himself,  his  friends, 
and  the  world,  he  has  only  to  confirm  the  decision,  and 

*  tength  vf»  hear  when   he  has  reached   his  last  step. 

•  AH  i  no  wonder — there  was  never  any  Good  in  him. 
Hang  him !" 

much,  if  not  all  this,  may  be  checked  by  a  word. 

(7) 


8  GOOD   IN   ALL. 

If  you  believe  in  Good,  always  appeal  to  it.  Be  sure 
whatever  there  is  of  Good — is  of  God.  There  is  never 
an  utter  want  of  resemblance  to  the  common  Father. 
"God  made  man  in  His  own  image."  "What!  yon 
reeling,  blaspheming  creature ;  yon  heartless  cynic ; 
yon  crafty  trader ;  yon  false  statesman  ?"  Yes  !  All. 
In  every  nature  there  is  a  germ  of  eternal  happiness, 
of  undying  Good.  In  the  drunkard's  heart  there  is  a 
memory  of  something  better — slight,  dim  :  but  flickering 
still ;  why  should  you  not  by  the  warmth  of  your  charity, 
give  growth  to  the  Good  that  is  in  him  ?  The  cynic,  the 
miser,  is  not  all  self.  There  is  a  note  in  that  sullen  in- 
strument to  make  all  harmony  yet ;  but  it  wants  a  pa- 
tient and  gentle  master  to  touch  the  strings. 

You  point  to  the  words  "  There  is  none  good."  Tho 
truths  do  not  oppose  each  other.  "  There  is  none  good 
• — save  one."  And  He  breathes  in  all.  In  our  earthli- 
ness,  our  fleshly  will,  our  moral  grasp,  we  are  helpless, 
mean,  vile.  But  there  is  a  lamp  ever  burning  in  the 
heart :  a  guide  to  the  source  of  Light,  or  an  instrument 
of  torture.  We  can  make  it  either.  If  it  burn  in  an 
atmosphere  of  purity,  it  will  warm,  guide,  cheer  us.  If 
in  the  midst  of  selfishness,  or  under  the  pressure  of  pride, 
its  flame  will  be  unsteady,  and  we  shall  soon  have  good 
reason  to  trim  our  light,  and  find  new  oil  for  it. 

There  is  Good  in  All — the  impress  of  the  Deity.  He 
who  believes  not  in  the  image  of  God  in  man,  is  an  in- 
fidel to  himself  and  his  race.  There  is  no  difficulty 
about  discovering  it.  You  have  only  to  appeal  to  x*. 
Seek  in  every  one  the  best  features :  mark,  encourage, 


GOOD   IN   ALL.  9 

educate  them.  There  is  no  man  to  whom  some  circum- 
stance will  not  be  an  argument. 

And  how  glorious  in  practice,  this  faith !  How  easy, 
henceforth,  all  the  labours  of  our  law-makers,  and  how 
delightful,  how  practical  the  theories  of  our  philanthro- 
pists !  To  educate  the  Good — the  good  in  All:  to  raise 
every  man  in  his  own  opinion,  and  yet  to  stifle  all  arro- 
gance, by  showing  that  all  possess  this  Good.  In  them- 
selves, but  not  of  themselves.  Had  we  but  faith  in 
this  truth,  how  soon  should  we  all  be  digging  through 
the  darkness,  for  this  Gold  of  Love — this  universal 
Good.  A  Howard,  and  a  Fry,  cleansed  and  humanized 
our  prisons,  to  find  this  Good ;  and  in  the  chambers  of 
all  our  hearts  it  is  to  be  found,  by  labouring  eyes  and 
loving  hands. 

Why  all  our  harsh  enactments  ?  Is  it  from  experience 
of  the  strength  of  vice  in  ourselves  that  we  cage,  chain, 
torture,  and  hang  men  ?  Are  none  of  us  indebted  to 
friendly  hands,  careful  advisers ;  to  the  generous,  trust- 
ing guidance,  solace,  of  some  gentler  being,  who  has 
loved  us,  despite  the  evil  that  is  in  us — for  our  little 
Good,  and  has  nurtured  that  Good  with  smiles  and  tears 
and  prayers  ?  0,  we  know  not  how  like  we  are  to  those 
whom  we  despise  !  We  know  not  how  many  memories 
of  kith  and  kin  the  murderer  carries  to  the  gallows — 
how  much  honesty  of  heart  the  felon  drags  with  him  to 
the  hulks. 

There  is  Good  in  All.  Dodd,  the  forger,  was  a  better 
man  than  most  of  us :  Eugene  Aram,  the  homicide, 
would  turn  his  foot  from  a  worm.  Do  not  mistake  us. 
Socivty  demands,  requires  that  these  madmen  should  be 


10  GOOD   IN    ALL. 

rendered  harmless.      There  is  no  nature   dead  to  all 
Good.     Lady  Macbeth  would  have  slain  the  old  king, 

Had  he  not  resembled  her  father  as  he  slept. 

It  is  a  frequent  thought,  but  a  careless  and  worthless 
one,  because  never  acted  on,  that  the  same  energies,  the 
same  will  to  great  vices,  had  given  force  to  great  virtues. 
Do  we  provide  the  opportunity  ?  Do  we  believe  in 
Good  ?  If  we  are  ourselves  deceived  in  any  one,  is  not 
all,  thenceforth,  deceit  ?  if  treated  with  contempt,  is  not 
the  whole  world  clouded  with  scorn  ?  if  visited  with 
meanness,  are  not  all  selfish  ?  And  if  from  one  of  our 
frailer  fellow-creatures  we  receive  the  blow,  we  cease  to 
believe  in  women.  Not  the  breast  at  which  we  have 
drank  life — not  the  sisterly  hands  that  have  guided 
ours — not  the  one  voice  that  has  so  often  soothed  us  in 
our  darker  hours,  will  save  the  sex :  All  are  massed  in 
one  common  sentence  :  all  bad.  There  may  be  Deli- 
lahs:  there  are  many  Ruths.  We  should  not  lightly 
give  them  up.  Napoleon  lost  France  when  he  lost  Jo- 
sephine. The  one  light  in  Rembrandt's  gloomy  life  was 
his  sister. 

And  all  are  to  be  approached  at  some  point.  The 
proudest  bends  to  some  feeling — Coriolanus  conquered 
Rome :  but  the  husband  conquered  the  hero.  The 
money-maker  has  influences  beyond  his  gold — Reynold* 
made  an  exhibition  of  his  carriage,  but  he  was  generous 
to  Northcote,  and  had  time  to  think  of  the  poor  Plymp- 
ton  schoolmistress.  The  cold  are  not  all  ice.  Eli**, 
beth  slew  Essex — the  queen  triumphed ;  thex  woman 
died. 


GOOD   IN   ALL.  11 

There  is  Good  in  All.  Let  us  show  our  faith  in  it. 
When  the  lazy  whine  of  the  mendicant  jars  on  your  ears, 
think  of  his  unaided,  unschooled  childhood ;  think  that 
his  lean  cheeks  never  knew  the  baby-roundness  of  con- 
tent that  ours  have  worn ;  that  his  eye  knew  no  youth 
of  fire — no  manhood  of  expectancy.  Pity,  help,  teach 
him.  When  you  see  the  trader,  without  any  pride  of 
vocation,  seeking  how  he  can  best  cheat  you,  and  de- 
grade himself,  glance  into  the  room  behind  his  shop  and 
see  there  his  pale  wife  and  his  thin  children,  and  think 
how  cheerfully  he  meets  that  circle  in  the  only  hour  he 
has  out  of  the  twenty-four.  Pity  his  narrowness  of 
mind ;  his  want  of  reliance  upon  the  God  of  Good ;  but 
remember  there  have  been  Greshams,  and  Heriots,  and 
Whittingtons ;  and  remember,  too,  that  in  our  happy 
land  there  are  thousands  of  almshouses,  built  by  the 
men  of  trade  alone.  And  when  you  are  discontented 
with  the  great,  and  murmur,  repiningly,  of  Marvel  in 
his  garret,  or  Milton  in  his  hiding-place,  turn  in  justice 
to  the  Good  among  the  great.  Read  how  John  of  Lan- 
caster loved  Chaucer  and  sheltered  Wicliff.  There  have 
been  Burkes  as  well  as  Walpoles.  Russell  remembered 
Banim's  widow,  and  Peel  forgot  not  Haydn. 

Once  more :  believe  that  in  every  class  there  is  Good ; 
tn  every  man,  Good.  That  in  the  highest  and  most 
tempted,  as  well  as  in  the  lowest,  there  is  often  a  higher 
nobility  than  of  rank.  Pericles  and  Alexander  had 
great,  but  different  virtues,  and  although  the  refinement 
of  the  one  may  have  resulted  in  effeminacy,  and  the 
iardihood  of  the  other  in  brutality,  we  ought  to  pause 
we  we  condemr  where  we  should  all  have  fallen. 


12  HUMAN    PROGRESS. 

Look  only  for  the  Good.  It  will  make  you  welcome 
everywhere,  and  everywhere  it  will  make  you  an  instru- 
ment to  good.  The  lantern  of  Diogenes  is  a  poor  guide 
when  compared  with  the  Light  God  hath  set  in  the  hea- 
vens ;  a  Light  which  shines  into  the  solitary  cottage  and 
the  squalid  alley,  where  the  children  of  many  vices  are 
hourly  exchanging  deeds  of  kindness ;  a  Light  shining 
into  the  rooms  of  dingy  warehousemen  and  thrifty  clerks, 
whose  hard  labour  and  hoarded  coins  are  for  wife  and 
child  and  friend;  shining  into  prison  and  workhouse, 
where  sin  and  sorrow  glimmer  with  sad  eyes  through 
rusty  bars  into  distant  homes  and  mourning  hearths ; 
shining  through  heavy  curtains,  and  round  sumptuous 
tables,  where  the  heart  throbs  audibly  through  velvet 
rcantle  and  silken  vest,  and  where  eye  meets  eye  with 
affection  and  sympathy  ;  shining  everywhere  upon  God's 
creatures,  and  with  its  broad  beams  lighting  up  a  virtue 
wherever  it  falls,  and  telling  the  proud,  the  wronged, 
the  merciless,  or  the  despairing,  that  there  is  '  Good  in 
All." 


HUMAN  PROGRESS. 

WE  arc  told  to  look  through  nature 

Upward  unto  Nature's  God  ; 
We  are  told  there  is  a  scripture 

Written  on  the  meanest  sod; 
That  the  simplest  flower  created 

Is  a  key  to  hidden  things ; 
But,  immortal  over  nature, 

Mini,  the  lord  of  nature,  springs J 


HUMAN    PROGRESS.  IB 

Through  Humanity  look  upward.- - 

Altei  ye  the  oldeu  plan, — 
Look  through  man  to  the  Creator, 

Maker,  Father,  God  of  Man  1 
Shall  imperishable  spirit 

Yield  to  perishable  clay  ? 
No  !  sublime  o'er  Alpine  mountains 

Soars  the  Mind  its  heavenward  wayl 

Eeeper  than  the  vast  Atlantic 

Rolls  the  tide  of  human  thought; 
Farther  speeds  that  mental  ocean 

Than  the  world  of  waves  e'er  sought  I 
Mind,  sublime  in  its  own  essence 

Its  sublimity  can  lend 
To  the  rocks,  and  mounts,  and  torrents, 

And,  at  will,  their  features  bend  1 

Some  within  the  humblest  floweret 

"  Thoughts  too  deep  for  tears"  can  see; 
Oh,  the  humblest  man  existing 

Is  a  sadder  theme  to  me ! 
Thus  I  take  the  mightier  labour 

Of  the  great  Almighty  hand  ; 
And,  through  man  to  the  Creator, 

Upward  look,  and  weeping  stand. 

Thus  I  take  the  mightier  labour, 

Crowning  glory  of  His  will ; 
And  believe  that  in  the  meanest 

Lives  a  spark  of  Godhead  still: 
Something  that,  by  Truth  expanded, 

Might  be  fostered  into  worth  ; 
Something  struggling  through  the  darkness, 

Owning  an  immortal  birth  i 


14  .  HUMAN    PROGRESS. 

From  the  Genesis  of  being 

Unto  this  imperfect  day, 
Hath  Humanity  held  onward, 

Praying  God  to  aid  its  way ! 
And  Man's  progress  had  been  swifter, 

Had  he  never  turned  aside, 
To  the  worship  of  a  symbol, 

Not  the  spirit  signified  1 

And  Man's  progress  had  been  higher, 

Had  he  owned  his  brother  man, 
Left  his  narrow,  selfish  circle, 

For  a  world-embracing  plan ! 
There  are  some  for  ever  craving, 

Ever  discontent  with  place, 
In  the  eternal  would  find  briefness, 

In  the  infinite  want  space. 

if  through  man  unto  his  Maker 

We  the  source  of  truth  would  find. 
It  must  be  through  man  enlightened, 

Educated,  raised,  refined : 
That  which  the  Divine  hath  fashioned 

Ignorance  hath  oft  effaced  ; 
Never  may  we  see  God's  image 

In  man  darkened — man  debased ! 

Something  yield  to  Recreation, 

Something  to  Improvement  give ; 
There's  a  Spiritual  kingdom 

Where  the  Spirit  hopes  to  live ! 
There's  a  mental  world  of  grandeur, 

Which  the  mind  inspires  to  know ; 
Founts  of  everlasting  beauty 

That,  for  thosa  who  seek  them,  flow  I 


MY    WASHERWOMAN. 

Shores  where  Genius  breathes  immortal— 

Where  the  very  winds  convey 
Glorious  thoughts  of  Education, 

Holding  universal  sway ! 
Glorious  hopes  of  Human  Freedom, 

Freedom  of  the  noblest  kind  ; 
That  which  springs  from  Cultivation, 

Cheers  and  elevates  the  mind  I 

Let  us  hope  for  Better  Prospects, 

Strong  to  struggle  for  the  night, 
We  appeal  to  Truth,  and  ever 

Truth's  omnipotent  in  might ; 
Hasten,  then,  the  People's  Progress, 

Ere  their  last  faint  hope  be  gone  ; 
Teach  the  Nations  that  their  interest 

And  the  People's  good,  ARE  ONE. 


MY  WASHERWOMAN. 

SOME  people  have  a  singular  reluctance  to  part  with 
money.  If  waited  on  for  a  bill,  they  say,  almost  invo- 
luntarily, "  Call  to-morrow,"  even  though  their  pockets 
are  far  frorc  being  empty. 

I  cnce  fell  into  this  bad  habit  myself;  but  a  little  in- 
cident, whi.ch  I  will  relate,  cured  me.  Not  many  years 
after  I  had  attained  my  majority,  a  poor  widow,  named 
Blake,  did  my  washing  and  ironing.  She  was  the  mo- 
ther of  two  or  three  little  children,  whose  sole  depend- 
ence for  food  and  raiment  was  on  the  labour  of  her 
hands. 


18  MY    WASHERWOMAN. 

Punctually,  every  Thursday  morning,  Mrs.  Blake  ap- 
peared with  my  clothes,  "  white  as  the  driven  snow ;" 
but  not  always,  as  punctually,  did  I  pay  the  pittance  she 
had  earned  by  hard  labour. 

"  Mrs.  Blake  is  down  stairs,"  said  a  servant,  tapping 
at  my  room-door  one  morning,  while  I  was  in  the  act  of 
dressing  myself. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  I  replied.  "  Tell  her  to  leave  my 
clothes.  I  will  get  them  when  I  come  down." 

The  thought  of  paying  the  seventy-five  cents,  her  due, 
crossed  my  mind.  But  I  said  to  myself, — "  It's  but  a 
small  matter,  and  will  do  as  well  when  she  comes 
again." 

There  was  in  this  a  certain  reluctance  to  part  with 
money.  My  funds  were  low,  and  I  might  need  what 
change  I  had  during  the  day.  And  so  it  proved.  As 
I  went  to  the  office  in  which  I  was  engaged,  some  small 
article  of  ornament  caught  my  eye  in  a  shop  window. 

"  Beautiful !"  said  I,  as  I  stood  looking  at  it.  Admi- 
ration quickly  changed  into  the  desire  for  possession ; 
and  so  I  stepped  in  to  ask  the  price.  It  was  just  two 
dollars. 

"  Cheap  enough,"  thought  I.  And  this  very  cheap- 
ness was  a  further  temptation. 

So  I  turned  out  the  contents  of  my  pockets,  counted 
them  over,  and  found  the  amount  to  be  two  dollars  and 
a  quarter. 

"  1  guess  I'll  take  it,"  said  I,  laying  the  money  on  the 
shopkeeper's  counter. 

"I'd  better  have  paid  Mrs.  Blake."  This  thought 
crossed  my  mind,  an  hour  afterwards,  by  which  time  the 


MY   WASHERWOMAN.  17 

little  ornament  had  lost  its  power  of  pleasing.  "  So 
much  would  at  least  have  been  saved." 

I  was  leaving  the  table,  after  tea,  on  the  evening  that 
followed,  when  the  waiter  said  to  me, 

"Mrs.  Blake  is  at  the  door,  and  wishes  to  see  you." 

I  felt  a  little  worried  at  hearing  this ;  for  I  had  no 
change  in  my  pockets,  and  the  poor  washerwoman  had, 
of  course,  come  for  her  money. 

"  She's  in  a  great  hurry,"  I  muttered  to  myself,  as  I 
descended  to  the  door. 

"  You'll  have  to  wait  until  you  bring  home  my  clothes 
next  week,  Mrs.  Blake.  I  haven't  any  change,  this 
evening." 

The  expression  of  the  poor  woman's  face,  as  she  turn- 
ed slowly  away,  without  speaking,  rather  softened  my 
feelings. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  I,  "  but  it  can't  be  helped  now.  I 
•wish  you  had  said,  this  morning,  that  you  wanted  mo- 
ney. I  could  have  paid  you  then." 

She  paused,  and  turned  partly  towards  me,  as  I  said 
this.  Then  she  moved  off,  with  something  so  sad  in  her 
manner,  that  I  was  touched  sensibly. 

"  I  ought  to  have  paid  ber  this  morning,  when  I  had 
the  change  about  me.  And  I  wish  I  had  done  so.  Why 
didn't  she  ask  for  her  money,  if  she  wanted  it  so 
badly?" 

I  felt,  of  course,  rather  ill  at  ease.  A  little  while 
afterwards  I  met  the  lady  with  whom  I  was  boarding. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  this  Mrs.  Blake,  who 
washes  for  me  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Not  much ;  except  that  she  is  very  poor,  and  has 
2 


18  MY   WASHERWOMAN. 

three  children  to  feed  and  clothe.  And  what  is  worst 
of  all,  she  is  in  bad  health.  I  think  she  told  me,  this 
morning,  that  one  of  her  little  ones  was  very  sick." 

I  was  smitten  with  a  feeling  of  self-condemnation,  and 
eoon  after  left  the  room.  It  was  too  late  to  remedy  the 
evil,  for  I  had  only  a  sixpence  in  my  pocket ;  and,  more- 
over, did  not  know  where  to  find  Mrs.  Blake. 

Having  purposed  to  make  a  call  upon  some  young 
ladies  that  evening,  I  now  went  up  into  my  room  to  dress. 
Upon  my  bed  lay  the  spotless  linen  brought  home  by 
Mrs.  Blake  in  the  morning.  The  sight  of  it  rebuked 
me ;  and  I  had  to  conquer,  with  some  force,  an  instinct- 
ive reluctance,  before  I  could  compel  myself  to  put  on 
a  clean  shirt,  and  snow-white  vest,  too  recently  from  the 
hand  of  my  unpaid  washerwoman. 

One  of  the  young  ladies  upon  whom  I  called  was  more 
to  me  than  a  mere  pleasant  acquaintance.  My  heart 
had,  in  fact,  been  warming  towards  her  for  some  time  ; 
and  I  was  particularly  anxious  to  find  favour  in  her  eyes. 
On  this  evening  she  was  lovelier  and  more  attractive 
than  ever,  and  new  bonds  of  affection  entwined  them 
selves  around  my  heart. 

Judge,  then,  of  the  effect  produced  upon  me  by  the 
entrance  of  her  mother- — at  the  very  moment  when  my 
heart  was  all  a-glow  with  love,  who  said,  as  she  came 
in — 

"  Oh,  dear  !     This  is  a  strange  world  !" 

"  What  new  feature  have  you  discovered  now,  mo- 
ther ?"  asked  one  of  her  daughters,  smiling. 

"No  new  one,  child;  but  an  old  one  that  looks  more 


MY   WASHERWOMAN.  19 

repulsive  than  ever,"  was  replied.  "  Poor  Mrs.  Blake 
came  to  see  me  just  now,  in  great  trouble." 

"What  about,  mother?"  All  the  young  ladies  at 
once  manifested  unusual  interest. 

Tell-tale  blushes  came  instantly  to  my  countenance, 
upon  which  the  eyes  of  the  mother  turned  themselves,  aa 
I  felt,  with  a  severe  scrutiny. 

"  The  old  story,  in  cases  like  hers,"  was  answered. 
"  Can't  get  her  money  when  earned,  although  for  daily 
bread  she  is  dependent  on  her  daily  labour.  With  no 
food  in  the  house,  or  money  to  buy  medicine  for  her  sick 
child,  she  was  compelled  to  seek  me  to-night,  and  to 
humble  her  spirit,  which  is  an  independent  one,  so  low 
as  to  ask  bread  for  her  little  ones,  and  the  loan  of  a  pit- 
tance with  which  to  get  what  the  doctor  has  ordered  for 
her  feeble  sufferer  at  home." 

"  Oh,  what  a  shame !"  fell  from  the  lips  of  Ellen,  the 
one  in  whom  my  heart  felt  more  than  a  passing  interest ; 
and  she  looked  at  me  earnestly  as  she  spoke. 

"She  fully  expected,"  said  the  mother,  "to  get  a 
trifle  that  was  due  her  from  a  young  man  who  boards 
with  Mrs.  Corwin  ;  and  she  went  to  see  him  this  evening. 
But  he  put  her  off  with  some  excuse.  How  strange  that 
any  one  should  be  so  thoughtless  as  to  withhold  from  the 
poor  their  hard-earned  pittance  !  It  is  but  a  small  sura 
at  best,  that  the  toiling  seamstress  or  washerwoman  can 
gain  by  her  wearying  labour.  That,  at  least,  should  be 
piomptly  paid.  To  withhold  it  an  hour  is  to  do,  in 
many  cases,  a  great  wrong." 

For  some  minutes  after  this  was  said,  there  ensued  a 
dead  silence.  I  felt  that  the  thoughts  of  all  were  turned 


20  FORGIVE   AND    FORGET. 

upon  me  as  the  one  who  had  withheld  from  poor  Mrs. 
Blake  the  trifling  sum  due  her  for  washing.  What  my 
feelings  were,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  describe ;  and 
difficult  for  any  one,  never  himself  placed  in  so  unpleas- 
ant a  position,  to  imagine. 

My  relief  was  great  when  the  conversation  flowed  on 
again,  and  in  another  channel ;  for  I  then  perceived  that 
suspicion  did  not  rest  upon  me.  You  may  be  sure  that 
Mrs.  Blake  had  her  money  before  ten  o'clock  on  the 
next  day,  and  that  I  never  again  fell  into  the  error  of 
neglecting,  for  a  single  week,  my  poor  washerwoman. 


FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

THERE'S  a  secret  in  living,  if  folks  only  knew ; 

An  Alchymy  precious,  and  golden,  and  true, 

More  precious  than  "  gold  dust,"  though  pure  and  refined, 

For  its  mint  is  the  heart,  and  its  storehouse  the  mind  ; 

Do  you  guess  what  I  mean — for  as  true  as  I  live 

Thai  dear  litile  secret's — forget  and  forgive ! 

When  hearts  that  have  loved  have  grown  cold  and  estrangecl, 
And  looks  that  beamed  fondness  are  clouded  and  changed, 
And  words  hotly  spoken  and  grieved  for  with  tears 
Have  broken  the  trust  and  the  friendship  of  years — 
Oh !  think  'mid  thy  pride  and  thy  secret  regret, 
The  balm  for  the  wound  is — forgive  and  forget ! 

Yes !  look  in  thy  spirit,  for  love  may  return 
And  kindle  the  embers  that  still  feebly  burn; 
And  let  this  true  whisper  breathe  high  in  thy  heart, 
1  Tin  better  to  love  than  thus  suffer  apart — 


OWE   NO    MAN    ANYTHING.  21 

Let  the  Past  teach  the  Future  more  wisely  thsvn  yet, 
For  the  friendship  that's  true  can  forgive  and  forget. 

And  now,  an  adieu  !  if  you  list  to  my  lay 

May  each  in  your  thoughts  bear  my  motto  away, 

"Tis  a  crude,  simple  ryhme,  but  its  truth  may  impart 

A  joy  to  the  gentle  and  loving  of  heart ; 

And  an  end  I  would  claim  far  more  practical  yet 

In  behalf  of  the  Rhymer — -forgive  and  forget! 


OWE  ,NO  MAN  ANYTHING. 

THUS  says  an  Apostle ;  and  if  those  who  are  able  to 
"owe  no  man  anything"  would  fully  observe  this  divine 
obligation,  many,  very  many,  whom  their  want  of  punc- 
tuality now  compels  to  live  in  violation  of  this  precept, 
would  then  faithfully  and  promptly  render  to  every  one 
their  just  dues. 

"What  is  the  nat'.er  with  you,  Geor*ge?"  said  Mrs. 
Allison  to  her  husn  >nd,  as  he  paced  the  floor  of  their 
little  sitting-room,  with  an  anxious,  troubled  expression 
of  countenance. 

"  Oh !  nothing  of  much  consequence ;  only  a  little 
worry  of  business,"  replied  Mr.  Allison. 

"  But  I  know  better  than  that,  George.  I  know  it  ia 
of  consequence  ;  you  are  not  apt  to  have  such  a  long 
face  for  nothing.  Come,  tell  me  what  it  is  that  troubles 
you.  Have  I  not  a  right  to  share  your  griefs  as  well  as 
your  joys  ?" 

"  Indeed,  Ellen,  it  is  nothing  but  business,  I  assure 


22  OWE  NO    MAN    ANYTHING. 

you ;  and  as  I  am  not  blessed  with  the  most  even  temper 
in  the  world,  it  does  not  take  much  you  know  to  upset 
me :  but  you  heard  me  speak  of  that  job  I  was  building 
forHillman?" 

"  Yes.  I  think  you  said  it  was  to  be  five  hundred 
dollars,  did  you  not  ?" 

"  I  did ;  and  it  was  to  have  been  cash  as  soon  as  done. 
Well,  he  took  it  out  two  weeks  ago ;  one  week  sooner 
than  I  promised  it.  I  sent  the  bill  with  it,  expecting, 
of  course,  he  would  send  me  a  check  for  the  amount; 
but  I  was  disappointed.  Having  heard  nothing  from 
him  since,  I  thought  I  would  call  on  him  this  morning, 
when,  to  my  surprise,  I  was  told  he  had  gone  travelling 
with  his  wife  and  daughter,  and  would  not  be  back  for 
six  weeks  or  two  months.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  felt 
when  I  was  told  this." 

"  He  is  safe  enough  for  it  I  suppose,  isn't  he,  George  ?" 
"  Oh,  yes ;  he  is  supposed  to  be  worth  about  three 
hundred  thousand.  But  what  good  is  that  to  me  ?  I 
was  looking  over  my  books  this  afternoon,  and,  including 
this  five  hundred,  there  is  just  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
due  me  now,  that  I  ought  to  have,  but  can't  get  it.  To 
a  man  doing  a  large  business  it  would  not  be  much ;  but 
to  one  with  my  limited  means,  it  is  a  good  deal.  And 
this  is  all  in  the  hands  of  five  individuals,  any  one  of 
whom  could  pay  immediately,  and  feel  not  the  least 
inconvenience  from  it." 

"  Are  you  much  pressed  for  money  just  now,  George?" 

"  I  have  a  note  in  bank  of  three  hundred,  which  falla 

due  to-morrow,  and  one  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  on 

Saturday.     Twenty-five  dollars  at  least  will  be  required 


OWE    NO    MAN    ANYTHING.  23 

to  pay  off  my  hands ;  and  besides  this,  our  quarter's 
rent  is  due  on  Monday,  and  my  shop  rent  next  Wednes- 
day. Then  there  are  other  little  bills  I  wanted  to  settle, 
our  own  wants  to  be  supplied,  &c." 

"Why  don't  you  call  on  those  persons  you  spoke  of; 
perhaps  they  would  pay  you  ?" 

"  I  have  sent  their  bills  in,  but  if  I  call  on  them  so 
soon  I  might  pe'rhaps  affront  them,  and  cause  them  to 
take  their  work  away ;  and  that  I  don't  want  to  do. 
However,  I  think  I  shall  have  to  do  it,  let  the  conse- 
quence be  what  it  may." 

"  Perhaps  you  could  borrow  what  you  need,  Greorge, 
for  a  few  days." 

"  I  suppose  I  could ;  but  see  the  inconvenience  and 
trouble  it  puts  me  to.  I  was  so  certain  of  getting  Hill- 
man's  money  to  meet  these  two  notes,  that  I  failed  to 
make  any  other  provision." 

"  That  would  not  have  been  enough  of  itself." 

"  No,  but  I  have  a  hundred  on  hand ;  the  two  toge- 
ther would  have  paid  them,  and  left  enough  for  my 
workmen  too." 

As  early  as  practicable  the  next  morning  Mr.  Allison 
started  forth  to  raise  the  amount  necessary  to  carry  him 
safely  through  the  week.  He  thought  it  better  to  try 
to  collect  some  of  the  amounts  owing  to  him  than  to 
borrow.  He  first  called  on  a  wealthy  merchant,  whose 
annual  income  was  something  near  five  thousand. 
"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Allison,"  said  he,  as  that  indivi- 
dual entered  his  counting-room.  "  I  suppose  you  want 
Borne  money." 

"  I  should  like  a  little,  Mr.  Chapin,  if  you  please." 


24  OWE    NO    MAN    A.NYTIIING. 

"Well,  I  intended  coming  down  to  see  you,  but  1 
have  been  so  busy  that  I  have  not  been  able.  That  car- 
riage of  mine  which  you  did  up  a  few  weeks  ago  does 
not  suit  me  altogether." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  like  the  style  of  trimming,  for  one  thing ;  it 
has  a  common  look  to  me." 

"It  is  precisely  what  Mrs.  Chapin  ordered.  You 
told  me  to  suit  her." 

"  Yes,  but  did  she  not  tell  you  to  trim  it  like  General 
Spangler's  ?" 

"I  am  very  much  mistaken,  Mr.  Chapin,  if  it  is  not 
precisely  like  his." 

"  Oh  !  no  ;  his  has  a  much  richer  look  than  mine." 

"  The  style  of  trimming  is  just  the  same,  Mr.  Chapin; 
but  you  certainly  did  not  suppose  that  a  carriage  trim- 
med with  worsted  lace,  would  look  as  well  as  one  trimmed 
with  silk  lace  ?" 

"  No,  of  course  not ;  but  there  are  some  other  little 
things  about  it  that  don't  suit  me.  I  will  send  my  man 
down  with  it  to-day,  and  he  will  show  you  what  they 
are.  I  would  like  to  have  it  to-morrow  afternoon,  to 
take  my  family  out  in.  Call  up  on  Monday,  and  we  will 
have  a  settlement." 

Mr.  Allison  next  called  at  the  office  of  a  young  law- 
yer, who  had  lately  come  into  possession  of  an  estate 
valued  at  one  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Mr.  Allison's 
bill  was  three  hundred  dollars,  which  his  young  friend 
assured  him  he  would  settle  immediately,  only  that  there 
was  a  slight  error  in  the  way  it  was  made  out,  and  not 
having  the  bill  with  him,  he  could  not  now  correct  it. 


OWE    NO    MAN    ANYTHING.  25 

He  would  call  on  Mr.  Allison  with  it,  sometime  during 
the  next  week,  and  settle  it. 

A  Custom-House  gentleman  was  next  sought,  but  his 
time  had  been  so  much  taken  up  with  his  official  duties, 
that  he  had  not  yet  been  able  to  examine  the  bill.  He 
had  no  doubt  but  it  was  all  correct ;  still,  as  he  was  not 
accustomed  to  doing  business  in  a  loose  way,  he  must 
claim  Mr.  Allison's  indulgence  a  few  days  longer. 

Almost  disheartened,  Mr.  Allison  entered  the  store 
of  the  last  individual  who  was  indebted  to  him  for  any 
considerable  amount,  not  daring  to  hope  that  he  would 
be  any  more  successful  with  him  than  with  the  others  he 
had  called  on.  But  he  was  successful ;  the  bill,  which 
amounted  to  near  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  was 
promptly  paid,  Mr.  Allison's  pocket,  in  consequence, 
that  much  heavier,  and  his  heart  that  much  lighter. 
Fifty  dollars  was  yet  lacking  of  the  sum  requisite  for 
that  day.  After  calling  on  two  or  three  individuals, 
this  amount  was  obtained,  with  the  promise  of  being 
returned  by  the  middle  of  the  next  week. 

"  I  shall  have  hard  work  to  get  through  to-day,  I 
know,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  sat  at  his  desk  on  the 
following  morning. 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  to  be  raised  by  bor- 
rowing. I  don't  know  where  I  can  get  it." 

To  many  this  would  be  a  small  sum,  but  Mr.  Allison 
was  peculiarly  situated.  He  was  an  honest,  upright 
mechanic,  but  he  was  poor.  It  was  with  difficulty  he  had 
raised  the  fifty  dollars  on  the  day  previous.  Although 
he  had  never  once  failed  in  returning  money  at  the  time 
promised,  still,  for  some  reason  or  other,  everybody 


26  OWE    NO    MAN    ANYTHING. 

appeared  unwilling  to  lend  him.  It  was  nearly  two 
o'clock,  and  he  was  still  a  hundred  dollars  short. 

"Well,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  I  have  done  all  I  could, 
and  if  Hall  won't  renew  the  note  for  the  balance,  it  will 
have  to  be  protested.  I'll  go  and  ask  him,  though  I 
have  not  much  hope  that  he  will  do  it." 

As  he  was  about  leaving  his  shop  for  that  purpose,  a 
gentleman  entered  who  wished  to  buy  a  second-hand 
carriage.  Mr.  Allison  had  but  one,  and  that  almost 
new,  for  which  he  asked  a  hundred  and  forty  dollars. 

"  It  is  higher  than  I  wished  to  go,"  remarked  the 
gentleman.  "  I  ought  to  get  a  new  one  for  that  price." 

"  So  you  can,  but  not  like  this.  I  can  sell  you  a  new 
one  for  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars.  But  what 
did  you  expect  to  pay  for  one?" 

"I  was  offered  one  at  Holton's  for  seventy-five;  but 
I  did  not  like  it.  I  will  give  you  a  hundred  for  yours." 

"It  is  too  little,  indeed,  sir:  that  carriage  cost  three 
hundred  dollars  when  it  was  new.  It  was  in  use  a  very 
short  time.  I  allowed  a  hundred  and  forty  dollars  for 
it  myself." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  would  not  wish  you  to  sell  at  a  disad- 
vantage, but  if  you  like  to  accept  of  my  offer  I'll  take 
it.  I'm  prepared  to  pay  the  cash  down." 

Mr.  Allison  did  not  reply  for  some  minutes.  He  was 
undecided  as  to  what  was  best. 

"Forty  dollars,"  said  he  to  himself,  "is  a  pretty 
ieavy  discount.  I  am  almost  tempted  to  refuse  his  offer 
ind  trust  to  Hall's  renewing  the  note.  But  suppose  he 
won't — then  I'm  done  for.  I  think,  upon  the  whole,  I 
had  better  accept  it.  I'll  put  it  at  one  hundred  and 


OWE    NO    MAN    ANYTHING  £7 

twenty-five,  my  good  friend,"  said  he,  addressing  the 
customer. 

"No,  sir ;  one  hundred  is  all  I  shall  give." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  must  have  it,  then ;  hut  indeed 
you  have  got  a  bargain." 

"  It  is  too  had,"  muttered  Allison  to  himself,  as  he 
left  the  bank  after  having  paid  his  note.  "  There  ia 
just  forty  dollars  thrown  away.  And  why  ?  Simply 
because  those  who  are  blessed  with  the  means  of  dis- 
charging their  debts  promptly,  neglect  to  do  so." 

"How  did  you  make  out  to-day,  George?"  asked  his 
wife,  as  they  sat  at  the  tea-table  that  same  evening. 

"  I  met  my  note,  and  that  was  all." 

"Did  you  give  your  men  anything?" 

"  Not  a  cent.  I  had  but  one  dollar  left  after  paying 
that.  I  was  sorry  for  them,  but  I  could  not  help  them. 
I  am  afraid  Robinson's  family  will  suffer,  for  there  has 
been  sickness  in  his  house  almost  constantly  for  the  last 
twelvemonth.  His  wife,  he  told  me  the  other  day,  had 
not  been  out  of  her  bed  for  six  weeks.  Poor  fellow ! 
He  looked  quite  dejected  when  I  told  him  I  had  nothing 
for  him." 

At  this  moment  the  door-bell  rang,  and  a  minute  or 
two  afterwards  a  young  girl  entered  the  room  in  which 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allison  were  sitting.  Before  introducing 
her  to  our  readers,  we  will  conduct  them  to  the  interior 
of  an  obscure  dwelling,  situated  near  the  outskirts  of 
the  city.  The  room  is  small,  and  scantily  furnished,  and 
answers  at  once  for  parlour,  dining-room,  and  kitchen. 
Its  occupants,  Mrs.  Perry  and  her  daughter,  have  been, 
since  the  earliest  dawn  of  day,  intently  occupied  with 


28  OWE   NO    MAN    ANYTHING. 

their  needles-,  barely  allowing  themselves  time  to  par« 
take  of  their  frugal  meal. 

"Half-past  three  o'clock!"  ejaculated  the  daughter, 
her  eyes  glancing,  as  she  spoke,  at  the  clock  on  tho 
mantelpiece.  "  I  am  afraid  we  shall  not  get  this  work 
done  in  time  for  me  to  take  it  home  before  dark,  mo- 
ther." 

"  We  must  try  hard,  Laura,  for  you  know  we  have 
not  a  cent  in  the  house,  and  I  told  Mrs.  Carr  to  come 
over  to-night,  and  I  would  pay  her  what  I  owe  her  for 
•washing.  Poor  thing!  T  would  not  like  to  disappoint 
her,  for  I  know  she  needs  it." 

Nothing  more  was  said  for  near  twenty  minutes,  when 
Laura  again  broke  the  silence. 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  Avhat  a  pain  I  have  in 
my  side !"  And  for  a  moment  she  rested  from  her  work, 
and  straightened  herself  in  her  chair,  to  afford  a  slight 
relief  from  the  uneasiness  she  experienced.  "I  wonder, 
mother,  if  I  shall  always  be  obliged  to  sit  so  steady  ?" 

"  I  hope  not,  my  child ;  but  bad  as  our  situation  is, 
there  are  hundreds  worse  off  than  we.  Take  Annie 
Carr,  for  instance — how  would  you  like  to  exchange 
places  with  her  ?" 

"  Poor  Annie  !  I  was  thinking  of  her  awhile  go,  mo- 
ther. How  hard  it  must  be  for  one  so  young  to  be  so 
afflicted  as  she  is  !" 

"  And  yet,  Laura,  she  never  complains  ;  although  for 
five  years  she  has  never  left  her  bed,  and  has  often  suf- 
fered, I  know,  for  want  of  proper  nourishment." 

*'  I  don't  think  she  will  suffer  much  longer,  mother. 
I  stopped  in  to  seo  her  the  other  day,  and  I  was  aeto 


OWE   NO   MAN   ANYTHING.  29 

nished  at  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  A  short 
time.  Her  conversation,  too,  seems  so  heavenly,  her  faith 
in  the  Lord  so  strong,  that  I  could  not  avoid  coming  to 
the  conclusion  that  a  few  days  more,  at  the  most,  would 
terminate  her  wearisome  life." 

"  It  will  be  a  happy  release  for  her,  indeed,  my 
daughter.  Still,  it  will  be  a  sore  trial  for  her  mother." 

It  was  near  six  when  Mrs.  Perry  and  her  daughter 
finished  the  work  upon  which  they  were  engaged. 

"Now  Laura,  dear,"  said  the  mother,  "get  back  as 
soon  as  you  can,  for  I  don't  like  you  to  be  out  after 
night,  and  more  than  that,  if  Mrs.  Carr  comes,  she  won't 
want  to  wait." 

About  twenty  minutes  after  the  young  girl  had  gone, 
Mrs.  Carr  called.  "  Pray,  be  seated,  my  dear  friend," 
said  Mrs.  Perry,  "  my  daughter  has  just  gone  to  Mrs. 
Allison's  with  some  work,  and  as  soon  as  she  returns  I 
can  pay  you." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  call  over  again,  Mrs.  Perry," 
answered  the  poor  woman;  "Mary  begged  me  not  to 
stay  long." 

"  Is  Annie  any  worse,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  great  deal ;  the  doctor  thinks  she  will 
hardly  last  till  morning." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Carr,  death  can  be  only  gain  to  her." 

"  Very  true ;  still,  the  idea  of  losing  her  seems  dread- 
ful to  me." 

"  How  does  Mary  get  on  at  Mrs.  Owring's  ?" 

"  Not  very  well ;  she  has  been  at  work  for  her  just 
one  month  to-day ;  and  although  she  gave  her  to  under 
stand  that  her  wages  would  be  at  least  a  dollar  and  • 


30  OWE   NO    MAN   ANYTHING. 

quarter  a  week,  yet  to-night,  -when  she  settled  with  her, 
Bhe  wouldn't  give  her  hut  three  dollars,  and  at  the  same 
time  told  her  that  if  she  didn't  choose  to  work  for  that 
she  could  go." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  was  the  reason  for  her  acting 
so?" 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed,  unless  it  is  because  she  does 
not  get  there  quite  as  early  as  the  rest  of  her  hands ; 
for  you  see  I  am  obliged  to  keep  her  a  little  while  in  the 
morning  to  help  me  to  move  Annie  while  I  make  her 
bed.  Even  that  little  sum,  small  it  was,  would  have 
been  some  help  to  us,  but  it  had  all  to  go  for  rent.  My 
landlord  would  take  no  denial.  But  I  must  go ;  you 
think  I  can  depend  on  receiving  your  money  to-night  ?" 

"  I  do.  Mrs.  Allison  is  always  prompt  in  paying  for 
her  work  as  soon  as  it  is  done.  I  will  not  trouble  you 
to  come  again  for  it,  Mrs.  Carr.  Laura  shall  bring  it 
over  to  you." 

Let  us  now  turn  to  the  young  girl  we  left  at  Mr.  Al- 
lison's, whom  our  readers,  no  doubt,  recognise  as  Laura 
Perry. 

"  Good  evening,  Laura,"  said  Mrs.  Allison,  as  she 
entered  the  room  ;  "  not  brought  my  work  home  already  ! 
I  did  not  look  for  it  till  next  week.  You  and  your  mo- 
ther, I  am  afraid  confine  yourselves  too  closely  to  your 
needles  for  your  own  good.  But  you  have  not  had  your 
tea  ?  sit  up,  and  take  some." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Allison ;  mother  will  be  uneasy 
if  I  stay  long." 

"  Well,  Laura,  I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot  settle  with 
you  to-night.  Tell  your  mother  Mr.  Allison  was  disaj> 


OWE   NO    MAN   ANYTHING.  81 

pointed  in  collecting  to-day,  or  she  certainly  should  have 
had  it.  Did  she  say  how  much  it  was  ?" 

"  Two  dollars,  ma'am." 

"  Very  well :  I  will  try  and  let  her  have  it  next 
week." 

The  expression  of  Laura's  countenance  told  too  plainly 
the  disappointment  she  felt.  "  I  am  afraid  Mrs.  Perry 
is  in  want  of  that  money,"  remarked  the  husband  after 
she  had  gone. 

"  Not  the  least  doubt  of  it,"  replied  his  wife.  "  She 
would  not  have  sent  home  work  at  this  hour  if  she  had 
not  been.  Poor  things !  who  can  tell  the  amount  of 
suffering  and  wretchedness  that  is  caused  by  the  rich 
neglecting  to  pay  promptly." 

"  You  come  without  money,  Laura,"  said  her  mother, 
as  she  entered  the  house. 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  mother  ?"  she  replied, 
forcing  a  smile. 

"  I  read  it  in  your  countenance.     Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  It  is  :  Mr.  Allison  was  disappointed  in  collecting — 
what  will  we  do,  mother?" 

"  The  best  we  can,  my  child.  We  will  have  to  do 
without  our  beef  for  dinner  to-morrow;  but  then  we 
have  plenty  of  bread  ;  so  we  shall  not  starve. " 

"  And  I  shall  have  to  do  without  my  new  shoes.  My 
old  ones  are  too  shabby  to  go  to  church  in ;  so  I  shall 
have  to  stay  at  home." 

"I  am  sorry  for  your  disappointment,  my  child,  but  I 
care  more  for  Mrs.  Carr  than  I  do  for  ourselves.  She 
has  been  here,  and  is  in  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  The 
doctor  don't  think  Annie  will  live  till  morring.  and  Mr& 


82  OWE   NO   MAN   ANYTHING. 

Owrings  has  refused  to  give  Mary  more  than  three  dol- 
lars for  her  mouth's  work,  every  cent  of  which  ol«I 
Grimes  took  for  rent.  I  told  her  she  might  depend  on 
getting  what  I  owed  her,  and  that  I  would  send  you 
over  with  it  when  you  returned.  You  had  better  go  at 
once  and  tell  her,  Laura ;  perhaps  she  may  be  able  to 
get  some  elsewhere." 

"  How  much  is  it,  mother  ?" 

"  Half  a  dollar." 

"  It  seems  hard  that  she  can't  get  that  small  sum.' 
With  a  heavy  heart  Laura  entered  Mrs.  Carr's  humble 
abode. 

"  Oh  how  glad  I  am  that  you  have  come,  my  dear  !" 
exclaimed  the  poor  woman.  "  Annie  has  been  craving 
some  ice  cream  all  day ;  it's  the  only  thing  she  seems  to 
fancy.  I  told  her  she  should  have  it  as  soon  as  you 
came." 

Mrs.  Carr's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  Laura  told  of  her 
ill  success.  "  I  care  not  for  myself,"  she  said,  "but  for 
that  poor  suffering  child." 

"Never  mind  me,  mother,"  replied  Annie.  "It  was 
selfish  in  me  to  want  it,  when  I  know  how  hard  you  and 
Mary  are  obliged  to  work  for  every  cent  you  get.  But 
I  feel  that  I  shall  not  bother  you  much  longer ;  I  have 
a  strange  feeling  here  now."  And  she  placed  her  hand 
upon  her  left  side. 

"Stop!"  cried  Laura;  "I'll  try  and  get  some  ice 
cream  for  you,  Annie."  And  off  she  ran  to  her  mother's 
dwelling.  "  Mother,"  said  she,  as  she  entered  the  house, 
"  do  you  recollect  that  half  dollar  father  gave  me  the  last 
time  he  went  to  sea  ?" 


OWE   NO   MAN   ANYTHING.  83 

"Yes.  dear." 

"  Well,  I  think  I  had  better  take  it  and  pay  Mrs. 
Oarr.  Annie  is  very  bad,  and  her  mother  says  she  has 
been  wanting  some  ice  cream  all  day." 

*'  It  is  yours,  Laura,  do  as  yoii  like  about  it." 

"  It  goes  hard  with  me  to  part  with  it,  mother,  for  I 
liad  determined  to  keep  it  in  remembrance  of  my  fathor. 
It  is  just  twelve  years  to-day  since  he  Avent  away.  But 
poor  Annie — yes,  mother,  I  will  take  it." 

So  saying,  Laura  went  to  unlock  the  box  which  con- 
tained her  treasure,  but  unfortunately  her  key  was  not 
where  she  had  supposed  it  was.  After  a  half  hour's 
search  she  succeeded  in  finding  it.  Tears  coursed  down 
her  cheeks  like  rain  as  she  removed  from  the  corner  of 
the  little  box,  where  it  had  lain  for  so  many  years,  this 
precious  relic  of  a  dear  father,  who,  in  all  probability, 
was  buried  beneath  the  ocean.  Dashing  them  hastily 
away,  she  started  again  for  Mrs.  Carr's.  The  ice  cream 
was  procured  on  the  way,  and,  just  as  the  clock  struck 
eight,  she  arrived  at  the  door.  One  hour  has  elapsed 
since  she  left.  But  why  does  she  linger  on  the  thresh- 
old ?  Why  but  because  the  sounds  of  weeping  and 
mourning  have  reached  her  ears,  and  she  fears  that  all 
is  over  with  her  poor  friend.  Her  fears  are  indeed  true, 
for  the  pure  spirit  of  the  young  sufferer  has  taken  its 
flight  to  that  blest  land  where  hunger  and  thirst  ate 
known  no  more.  Poor  Annie  !  thy  last  earthly  wish,  a 
simple  glass  of  ice-cream,  was  denied  thee — and  why  ? 
We  need  not  pause  to  answer :  ye  who  have  an  abund- 
ance of  this  world's  goods,  think,  when  ye  are  about  to 
turn  from  your  doors  the  poor  seamstress  or  washerwo- 
3 


84  RETURNING  GOOD  FOR  EVIL. 

man,  or  even  those  less  destitute  than  they,  without  a 
just  recompense  for  their  labour,  whether  the  sufferings 
and  privations  of  some  poor  creatures  will  not  be  in- 
creased thereby. 


RETURNING  GOOD  FOR  EVIL. 

OBADIAH  LAWSON  and  Watt  Dood  were  neighbours ; 
that  is,  they  lived  within  a  half  mile  of  each  other,  and 
no  person  lived  between  their  respective  farms,  which 
would  have  joined,  had  not  a  little  strip  of  prairie  land 
extended  itself  sufficiently  to  keep  them  separated. 
Dood  was  the  oldest  settler,  and  from  his  youth  up  had 
entertained  a  singular  hatred  against  Quakers ;  there- 
fore, when  he  was  informed  that  Lawson,  a  regular  dis- 
ciple of  that  class  of  people,  had  purchased  the  next 
farm  to  his,  he  declared  he  would  make  him  glad  to 
move  away  again.  Accordingly,  a  system  of  petty 
annoyances  was  commenced  by  him,  and  every  time  one 
of  Lawson's  hogs  chanced  to  stray  upon  Dood's  place, 
he  was  beset  by  men  and  dogs,  and  most  savagely  abused. 
Things  progressed  thus  for  nearly  a  year,  and  the  Qua- 
ker, a  man  of  decidedly  peace  principles,  appeared  in 
no  way  to  resent  the  injuries  received  at  the  hands  of 
his  spiteful  neighbour.  But  matters  were  drawing  to  a 
crisis;  for  Dood,  more  enraged  than  ever  at  the  quiet 
of  Obadiah,  made  oath  that  he  would  do  something 
before  long  to  wake  up  the  spunk  of  Lawson.  Chance 
favoured  his  design.  The  Quaker  had  a  high-blooded 


RETURNING  GOOD  FOR  EVIL.  35 

filly,  which  ho  had  been  very  careful  in  raising,  and 
which  was  just  four  years  old.  Lawson  took  great  pride 
in  this  animal,  and  had  refused  a  large  sum  of  money 
for  her. 

One  evening,  a  little  after  sunset,  as  Watt  Dood 
was  passing  around  his  cornfield,  he  discovered  the  filly 
feeding  in  the  little  strip  of  prairie  land  that  separated 
the  two  farms,  and  he  conceived  the  hellish  design  of 
throwing  off  two  or  three  rails  of  his  fence,  that  the 
horse  might  get  into  his  corn  during  the  night.  He  did 
go,  and  the  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  he  shouldered 
Ins  rifle  and  left  the  house.  Not  long  after  his  absence, 
a  hired  man,  whom  he  had  recently  employed,  heard  the 
echo  of  his  gun,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Dood,  considerably 
excited  and  out  of  breath,  came  hurrying  to  the  house, 
where  he  stated  that  he  had  shot  at  and  wounded  a  buck  ; 
that  the  deer  attacked  him,  and  he  hardly  escaped  with 
his  life. 

This  story  was  credited  by  all  but  the  newly  employed 
hand,  who  had  taken  a  dislike  to  Watt,  and,  from  his 
manner,  suspected  that  something  was  wrong.  He 
therefore  slipped  quietly  away  from  the  house,  and  going 
through  the  field  in  the  direction  of  the  shot,  he  suddenly 
came  upon  Lawson's  filly,  stretched  upon  the  earth,  with 
a.  bullet  hole  through  the  head,  from  which  the  warm 
blood  was  still  oozing. 

The  animal  was  warm,  and  could  not  have  been  killed 
an  hour.  He  hastened  back  to  the  dwelling  of  Dood, 
who  met  him  in  the  yard,  and  demanded,  somewhat 
roughly,  where  he  had  been. 


36  RETURNING   GOOD   FOU   EVIL. 

"  I've  been  to  see  if  your  bullet  made  sure  work  of 
Mr.  Lawson's  filly,"  was  the  instant  retort. 

Watt  paled  for  a  moment,  but  collecting  himself,  he 
fiercely  shouted, 

"  Do  you  dare  to  say  I  killed  her  ?" 

"  How  do  you  know  she  is  dead  ?"  replied  the  man. 

Dood  bit  his  lip,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  turn- 
ing, walked  into  the  house. 

A  couple  of  days  passed  by,  and  the  morning  of  the 
third  one  had  broken,  as  the  hired  man  met  friend  Law- 
son,  riding  in  search  of  his  filly. 

A  few  words  of  explanation  ensued,  when,  with  a 
heavy  heart,  the  Quaker  turned  his  horse  and  rode  home, 
where  he  informed  the  people  of  the  fate  of  his  filly. 
No  threat  of  recrimination  escaped  him  ;  he  did  not 
even  go  to  law  to  recover  damages;  but  calmly  awaited 
his  plan  and  hour  of  revenge.  It  came  at  last. 

Watt  Dood  had  a  Durham  heifer,  for  which  he  had 
paid  a  heavy  price,  and  upon  which  he  counted  to  make 
great  gains. 

One  morning,  just  as  Obadiah  was  sitting  down,  his 
eldest  son  came  in  with  the  information  that  neighbour 
Dood's  heifer  had  broken  down  the  fence,  entered  the 
yard,  and  after  eating  most  of  the  cabbages,  had  tram- 
pled the  well-made  beds  and  the  vegetables  they  con- 
tained, out  of  all  shape — a  mischief  impossible  to  repair. 

"And  what  did  thee  do  with  her,  Jacob?"  quietly 
»sked  Obadiah. 

"  I  put  her  in  the  farm-yard." 

"  Did  thee  beat  her  ?" 

'*  I  never  struck  her  a  blow." 


RETURNING   aOOD   FOR   EVIL.  37 

"  Right,  Jacob,  right ;  sit  down  to  thy  breakfast,  and 
when  done  eating  I  will  attend  to  the  heifer." 

Shortly  after  he  had  finished  his  repast,  Lawson. 
mounted  a  horse,  and  rode  over  t3  Dood's,  who  waa 
sitting  under  the  porch  in  front  of  his  house,  and  who, 
U9  he  beheld  the  Quaker  dismount,  supposed  he  was 
coming  to  demand  pay  for  his  filly,  and  secretly  swore 
he  would  have  to  law  for  it  if  he  did. 

"  Good  morning,  neighbour  Dood  ;  how  is  thy  family?" 
exclaimed  Obadiah,  as  he  mounted  the  steps  and  seated 
himself  in  a  chair. 

"  All  well,  I  believe,"  was  the  crusty  reply. 

"  I  have  a  small  affair  to  settle  with  you  this  morning, 
and  I  came  rather  early." 

"•  So  I  suppose,"  growled  Watt. 

"  This  morning,  my  son  found  thy  Durham  heifer  in 
my  garden,  where  she  has  destroyed  a  good  deal." 

"  And  what  did  he  do  with  her  ?"  demanded  Dood, 
his  brow  darkening. 

"  What  would  thee  have  done  with  her,  had  she  been 
my  heifer  in  thy  garden?"  asked  Obadiah. 

"  I'd  a  shot  her  !"  retorted  Watt,  madly,  "  as  I  sup- 
pose you  have  done ;  but  we  are  only  even  now.  Heifer 
for  filly  is  only  '  tit  for  tat.'  " 

"  Neighbour  Dood,  thou  knowest  me  not,  if  thou 
thinkest  I  would  harm  a  hair  of  thy  heifer's  back.  She 
is  in  my  farm-ya/d,  and  not  even  a  blow  has  been  struck 
her,  where  thee  can  get  her  at  any  time.  I  know  thee 
shot  my  filly ;  but  the  evil  one  prompted  thee  to  do  it, 
and  I  lay  no  evil  in  my  heart  against  my  neighbours, 


38    PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET. 

1  came  to  tell  thee  where  thy  heifer  is,  and  now  I'll  go 
h:>me." 

Obadiah  rose  from  his  chair,  and  was  about  to  descend 
the  steps,  when  he  was  stopped  by  Watt,  who  hastily 
asked, 

•*  What  was  your  filly  worth  ?" 

"A  hundred  dollars  is  what  I  asked  for  her,"  replied 
Obediah. 

"  Wait  a  moment !"  and  Dood  rushed  into  the  house, 
from  whence  he  soon  returned,  holding  some  gold  in  hia 
hand.  "  Here's  the  price  of  your  filly ;  and  hereafter 
let  there  be  a  pleasantness  between  us." 

"  Willingly,  heartily,"  answered  Lawson,  grasping  the 
proffered  hand  of  the  other ;  "let  there  be  peace  between 
us." 

Obadiah  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  home  with  a 
lighter  heart,  and  from  that  day  to  this  Dood  has  been 
as  good  a  neighbour  as  one  could  wish  to  have ;  being 
completely  reformed  by  the  RETURNING  GOOD  FOR  EVIL. 


PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET. 

"  Do  you  recollect  Thomas,  who  lived  with  us  as 
waiter  about  two  years  ago,  Mary  ?"  asked  Mr.  Clarke, 
as  he  seated  himself  in  his  comfortable  arm-cbair,  and 
slipped  his  feet  into  the  nicely-warmed,  embroidered 
slippers,  which  stood  ready  for  his  use. 

"  Certainly,"  was  the  reply  of  Mrs.  Clarke.  "  He 
was  a  bright,  active  fellow,  but  rather  insolent." 


PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET.    39 

"  He  has  proved  to  be  a  regular  pickpocket,"  con- 
tinued her  husband,  "  and  is  now  on  his  way  to  Black- 
well's  Island." 

"  A  very  suitable  place  for  him.  I  hope  he  will  be 
benefited  by  a  few  months'  residence  there,"  returned 
the  lady. 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Joshua  Clarke,  an 
uncle  of  the  young  couple,  who  was  quietly  reading  a 
newspaper  in  another  part  of  the  room.  "  There  are 
many  of  high  standing  in  the  world,  who  deserve  to  go 
to  Blackwell's  Island  quite  as  much  as  he  does." 

"  You  are  always  making  such  queer  speeches,  Uncle 
Joshua,"  said  his  niece.  "  I  suppose  you  do  not  mean 
that  there  are  pickpockets  among  respectable  people  ?" 

"  Indeed,  there  are,  my  dear  niece.  Your  knowledge 
of  the  world  must  be  very  limited,  if  you  are  not  aware 
of  this.  Putting  your  hand  in  your  neighbour's  pocket, 
is  one  of  the  most  fashionable  accomplishments  of  the 
day." 

Mrs.  Clarke  was  too  well  acquainted  with  her  uncle's 
peculiarities  to  think  of  arguing  with  him.  She  there- 
fore merely  smiled,  and  said  to  her  husband  : — 

"  Well,  Henry,  I  am  glad  that  neither  you  nor  myself 
are  acquainted  with  this  fashionable  accomplishment." 

"Not  acquainted  with  it !"  exclaimed  the  old  gentle- 
man. "  I  thought  you  knew  yourselves  better.  Why, 
you  and  Henry  are  both  regular  pickpockets  !" 

"  I  wonder  that  you  demean  your?elf  by  associating 
with  us !"  was  the  playful  reply. 

"  Oh,  you  are  no  worse  than  the  rest  of  the  world  ; 
and,  besides,  I  hope  to  do  you  some  good,  when  you 


40    PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  TOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET. 

grow  older  and  wiser.  At  present,  Henry's  whole  soul 
is  absorbed  in  the  desire  to  obtain  wealth." 

"In  a  fair  and  honourable  way,  uncle,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Clarke,  "  and  for  honourable  purposes." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Uncle  Joshua,  "  in  the  common 
acceptation  of  the  words  fair  and  honourable.  But,  do 
you  never,  in  your  mercantile  speculations,  endeavour  to 
convey  erroneous  impressions  to  the  minds  of  those  with 
whom  you  are  dealing?  Do  you  not  sometimes  suppress 
information  which  would  prevent  your  obtaining  a  good 
bargain  ?  Do  you  never  allow  your  customers  to  pur- 
chase goods  under  false  ideas  of  their  value  and  demand 
in  the  market  ?  If  you  saw  a  man,  less  skilled  in  busi- 
ness than  yourself,  about  to  take  a  step  injurious  to  him, 
but  advantageous  to  you,  would  you  warn  him  of  his 
danger — thus  obeying  the  command  to  love  your  neigh- 
bour as  yourself?" 

"  Why,  uncle,  these  questions  are  absurd.  Of  course, 
when  engaged  in  business,  I  endeavour  to  do  what  is 
for  my  own  advantage — leaving  others  to  look  out  for 
themselves." 

"  Exactly  so.  You  afe  perfectly  willing  to  put  your 
hand  in  your  neighbour's  pocket  and  take  all  you  can 
get,  provided  he  is  not  wise  enough  to  know  that  your 
hand  is  there." 

"  Oh,  for  shame,  Uncle  Joshua !  I  shall  not  allow  you 
to  talk  to  Henry  in  this  manner,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clarke, 
perceiving  that  her  husband  looked  somewhat  irritated. 
"  Come,  prove  your  charge  against  me.  In  what  way 
do  I  pick  my  neighbour's  pockets  ?" 


PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET.    41 

"  You  took  six  shillings  from  the  washerwoman  this 
morning,"  coolly  replied  Uncle  Joshua. 

"  Took  six  shillings  from  the  washerwoman  !  Paid 
her  six  shillings,  you  mean,  uncle.  She  called  for  the 
money  due  for  a  day's  work,  and  I  gave  it  to  her." 

"Yes,  but  not  till  you  had  kept  her  waiting  nearly  two 
hours.  I  heard  her  say,  as  she  left  the  house,  'I  have 
lost  a  day's  work  by  this  delay,  for  I  cannot  go  to  Mrs. 
Reed's  at  this  hour ;  so  I  shall  be  six  shillings  poorer  at 
the  end  of  the  week.' " 

"  Why  did  she  wait,  then  ?  She  could  have  called 
again.  I  was  not  ready  to  attend  to  her  at  so  early  an 
hour." 

"Probably  she  needed  the  money  to-day.  You  little 
know  the  value  of  six  shillings  to  the  mother  of  a  poor 
family,  Mary  ;  but,  you  should  remember  that  her  time 
is  valuable,  and  that  it  is  as  sinful  to  deprive  her  of  the 
use  of  it,  as  if  you  took  money  from  her  purse." 

"  Well,  uncle,  I  will  acknowledge  that  I  did  wrong  to 
keep  the  poor  woman  waiting,  and  I  will  endeavour  to 
be  more  considerate  in  future.  So  draw  your  chair  to 
the  table,  and  take  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  of  your  favour- 
ite cakes." 

"  Thank  you,  Mary  ;  but  I  am  engaged  to  take  tea 
with  your  old  friend,  Mrs.  Morrison.  Poor  thing !  she 
has  not  made  out  very  well  lately.  Her  school  has  quite 
run  down,  owing  to  sickness  among  her  scholars ;  and 
her  own  family  have  been  ill  all  winter ;  so  that  her 
expenses  have  been  great." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,"  replied  Mrs.  Clarke.  "  I 
had  hoped  that  her  school  was  succeeding.  Give  my 


42    PUTTING  TOUR  HAND  IN  TOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET. 

love  to  her,  uncle,  and  tell  her  I  will  call  upon  her  in  » 
day  or  two." 

Uncle  Joshua  promised  to  remember  the  message,  and 
bidding  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clarke  good  evening,  he  was  soon 
seated  in  Mrs.  Morrison's  neat  little  parlour,  which, 
though  it  hore  no  comparison  with  the  spacious  and 
beautifully  furnished  apartments  he  had  just  left,  had  an 
air  of  comfort  and  convenience  which  cou?d  not  fail  to 
please. 

Delighted  to  see  her  old  friend,  whom  she  also,  from 
early  habit,  addressed  by  the  title  of  Uncle  Joshua,  al- 
though he  was  no  relation,  Mrs.  Morrison's  countenance, 
for  awhile,  beamed  with  that  cheerful,  animated  expres- 
sion which  it  used  to  wear  in  her  more  youthful  days ; 
but  an  expression  of  care  and  anxiety  soon  overshadow- 
ed it,  and,  in  the  midst  of  her  kind  attentions  to  her 
visiter,  and  her  affectionate  endearment  to  two  sweet 
children,  who  were  playing  around  the  room,  she  would 
often  remain  thoughtful  and  abstracted  for  several  mi- 
nutes. 

Uncle  Joshua  was  an  attentive  observer,  and  he  saw 
that  something  weighed  heavily  upon  her  mind.  When 
tea  was  over,  and  the  little  ones  had  gone  to  rest,  he 
said,  kindly, 

"  Come,  Fanny,  draw  your  chair  close  to  my  side,  and 
tell  me  all  your  troubles,  as  freely  as  you  used  to  do 
when  a  merry-hearted  school-girl.  How  often  I  havo 
listened  to  the  sad  tale  of  the  pet  pigeon,  that  had  flown 
away,  or  the  favourite  plant  killed  by  the  untimely  frost. 
Come,  I  am  ready,  now  as  then,  to  assist  you  with  my 
advice,  and  my  purse,  too,  if  necessary," 


PUTTING  TOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOl  R/S  POCKET.    43 

Tears  started  to  Mrs.  Morrison's  eyes,  as  she  re- 
plied, 

"  You  were  always  a  kind  friend  to  me,  Uncle  Joshua, 
and  I  will  gladly  confide  my  troubles  to  you.  You  know- 
that  after  rny  husband's  death  I  took  this  house,  which, 
though  small,  may  seem  far  above  my  limited  income,  in 
the  hope  of  obtaining  a  school  sufficiently  large  to  en- 
able me  to  meet  the  rent,  and  also  to  support  myself 
and  children.  The  small  sum  left  them  by  their  father 
I  determined  to  invest  for  their  future  use.  I  unwisely 
intrusted  it  to  one  who  betrayed  the  trust,  and  appro- 
priated the  money  to  some  wild  speculation  of  his  own. 
He  says  that  he  did  this  in  the  hope  of  increasing  my 
little  property.  It  may  be  so,  but  my  consent  should 
have  been  asked.  He  failed,  and  there  is  little  hope  of 
our  ever  recovering  more  than  a  small  part  of  what  he 
owes  us.  But,  to  return  to  my  school.  I  found  little 
difficulty  in  obtaining  scholars,  and,  for  a  short  time, 
believed  myself  to  be  doing  well,  but  I  soon  found  that 
a  large  number  of  scholars  did  not  insure  a  large  income 
from  the  school.  My  terms  were  moderate,  but  still  I 
found  great  difficulty  in  obtaining  what  was  due  to  me 
at  the  end  of  the  term. 

"  A  few  paid  promptly,  and  without  expecting  me  to 
make  unreasonable  deductions  for  unpleasant  weather, 
slight  illness,  &c.,  &c.  Others  paid  after  long  delay, 
which  often  put  me  to  the  greatest  inconvenience ;  and 
gome,  after  appointing  day  after  day  for  me  to  call,  and 
promising  each  time  that  the  bill  should  be  settled  with- 
out fail,  moved  away,  I  knew  not  whither,  or  met  me  at 
length  with  a  cool  assurance  that  it  was  not  possible  for 


44    PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET. 

them  to  pay  me  at  present — if  it  was  ever  in  their 
they  would  let  me  know." 

"  Downright  robbery  !"  exclaimed  Uncle  Joshua.  "' A 
Bet  of  pickpockets !  I  wish  they  were  all  shipped  for 
Blackwell's  Island." 

"  There  are  many  reasons  assigned  for  not  paying," 
continued  Mrs.  Morrison.  "  Sometimes  the  children 
had  not  learned  as  much  as  the  parents  expected.  Some 
found  it  expedient  to  take  their  children  away  long  be- 
fore the  expiration  of  the  term,  and  then  gazed  at  me  in 
astonishment  when  I  declared  my  right  to  demand  pay 
for  the  whole  time  for  which  they  engaged.  One  lady, 
in  particular,  to  whose  daughter  I  was  giving  music  les- 
sons, withdrew  the  pupil  under  pretext  of  slight  indis- 
position, and  sent  me  the  amount  due  for  a  half  term. 
I  called  upon  her,  and  stated  that  I  considered  the  en- 
gagement binding  for  twenty-four  lessons,  but  would 
willingly  wait  until  the  young  lady  was  quite  recovered 
The  mother  appeared  to  assent  with  willingness  to  this 
arrangement,  and  took  the  proffered  money  without  com- 
ment. An  hour  or  two  after  I  received  a  laconic  epistle 
stating  that  the  lady  had  already  engaged  another  teacher, 
whom  she  thought  preferable — that  she  had  offered  me 
the  amount  due  for  half  of  the  term,  and  I  had  leclined 
receiving  it — therefore  she  should  not  offer  it  again.  I 
wrote  a  polite,  but  very  plain,  reply  to  this  note,  and 
enclosed  my  bill  for  the  whole  term,  but  have  never  heard 
from  her  since." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  actually  received  the 
money  which  you  returned  to  her  without  reluctance, 


PITTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET.    45 

ami  gave  you  no  notice  of  her  intention  to  employ  an- 
other teacher?"  demanded  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Cert  linly ;  and,  besides  this,  I  afterwards  ascer- 
tained that  the  young  lady  was  actually  receiving  a  les- 
son from  another  teacher,  when  I  called  at  the  house — 
therefore  the  plea  of  indisposition  was  entirely  false. 
The  most  perfect  satisfaction  had  always  been  expressed 
as  to  the  progress  of  the  pupil,  and  no  cause  was  assigned 
for  the  change." 

"  I  hope  you  have  met  with  few  cases  as  bad  as  this," 
remarked  Uncle  Joshua.  "  The  world  must  be  in  a  worse 
state  than  even  I  had  supposed,  if  such  imposition  is 
common." 

"  This  may  be  an  extreme  case,"  replied  Mrs.  Morri- 
son, "  but  I  could  relate  many  others  which  are  little 
better.  However,  you  will  soon  weary  of  my  experi- 
ence in  this  way,  Uncle  Joshua,  and  I  will  therefore 
mention  but  one  other  instance.  One  bitter  cold  day  in 
January,  I  called  at  the  house  of  a  lady  who  had  owed 
me  a  small  amount  for  nearly  a  year,  and  after  repeated 
delay  had  reluctantly  fixed  this  day  as  the  time  when 
she  would  pay  me  at  least  a  part  of  what  was  due.  I 
was  told  by  the  servant  who  opened  the  door  that  the 
lady  was  not  at  home. 

"  What  time  will  she  be  in  ?"  I  inquired. 

"Not  for  some  hours,"  was  the  reply. 

Leaving  word  that  I  would  call  again  towards  evening, 
I  retraced  my  steps,  feeling  much  disappointed  at  my  ill 
success,  as  I  had  felt  quite  sure  of  obtaining  the  money. 
About  five  o'clock  I  again  presented  myself  at  the  door, 
and  was  again  informed  that  the  lady  was  not  at  home. 


46    PUTTING!  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET. 

"I  will  walk  in,  and  wait  for  her  return,"  I  replied. 

The  servant  appeared  somewhat  startled  at  this,  but 
after  a  little  delay  ushered  me  into  the  parlour.  Two 
little  boys,  of  four  and  six  years  of  age,  were  playing 
about  the  room.  I  joined  in  their  sports,  and  soon  bo 
came  quite  familiar  with  them.  Half  an  hour  had  passed 
away,  when  I  inquired  of  the  oldest  boy  what  time  he 
expected  his  mother  ? 

"Not  till  late,"  he  answered,  hesitatingly. 

"  Did  she  take  the  baby  with  her  this  cold  day  ?"  I 
asked. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  promptly  replied  the  girl,  who,  under 
pretence  of  attending  to  the  children,  frequently  c^me 
into  the  room. 

The  youngest  child  gazed  earnestly  in  my  face,  and 
gaid,  smilingly, 

"  Mother  has  not  gone  away,  she  is  up  stairs.  She 
ran  away  with  baby  when  she  saw  you  coming,  and  told 
us  to  say  she  had  gone  out.  I  am  afraid  brother  will 
take  cold,  for  there  is  no  fire  up  stairs." 

"It  is  no  such  thing,"  exclaimed  the  girl  and  the  eld- 
est boy.  "  She  is  not  up  stairs,  ma'am,  or  she  would 
pee  you." 

But  even  as  they  spoke  the  loud  cries  of  an  infant 
were  heard,  and  a  voice  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  calling 
Jenny. 

The  girl  obeyed,  and  presently  returnc  I  with  the 
child  in  her  arms,  its  face,  neck,  and  hands  purple  with 
cold. 

"  Poor  little  thing,  it  has  got  its  death  in  that  cold 


PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR  S  POCKET.    47 

room,1''  she  said.      "Mistress  cannot  see  you,  ma'am, 
she  is  sick  and  gone  to  bed." 

1'his  last  story  was  probably  equally  false  with  the 
other,  but  I  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  remain,  and  with 
feelings  of  deep  regret  for  the  poor  children  who  were 
BO  early  taught  an  entire  disregard  for  truth,  and  of  sor- 
1  row  for  the  exposure  to  cold  to  which  I  had  innocently 
subjected  the  infant,  I  left  the  house.  A  few  days  after, 
I  heard  that  the  little  one  had  died  with  croup.  Jenny, 
whom  I  accidentally  met  in  the  street,  assured  me  that 
he  took  the  cold  which  caused  his  death  from  the  ex- 
posure on  the  afternoon  of  my  call,  as  he  became  ill  the 
following  day.  I  improved  the  opportunity  to  endeavour 
to  impress  upon  the  mind  of  the  poor  girl  the  sin  of 
which  she  had  been  guilty,  in  telling  a  falsehood  even 
in  obedience  to  the  commands  of  her  mistress ;  and  I 
hope  that  what  I  said  may  be  useful  to  her. 

The  want  of  honesty  and  promptness  in  the  parents 
of  my  pupils  often  caused  me  great  inconvenience,  and 
I  frequently  found  it  difficult  to  meet  my  rent  when  it 
became  due.  Still  I  have  struggled  through  my  difficul- 
ties without  contracting  any  debts  until  this  winter,  but 
the  sickness  which  has  prevailed  in  my  school  has  so 
materially  lessened  my  income,  and  my  family  expenses 
have,  for  the  same  reason,  been  so  much  greater,  that  I 
fear  it  will  be  quite  impossible  for  me  to  continue  in  my 
present  situation." 

*  "  Do  not  be  discouraged,"  said  Uncle  Joshua ;  "  1  will 
advance  whatever  sum  you  are  in  immediate  need  of, 
and  you  may  repay  me  when  it  is  convenient  to  yourself. 
I  will  also  take  the  bills  which  are  due  to  you  from  v* 


48    PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET 

rious  persons,  and  endeavour  to  collect  them.  Your 
present  term  is,  I  suppose,  nearly  ended.  Comment 
another  with  this  regulation  : — That  the  price  of  tuition. 
or  at  least  one-half  of  it,  shall  be  paid  before  the  en- 
trance of  the  scholar.  Some  will  complain  of  this  rule, 
but  many  will  not  hesitate  to  comply  with  it,  and  you 
will  find  the  result  beneficial.  And  now  I  would  leave 
you,  Fanny,  for  I  have  another  call  to  make  this  evening. 
My  young  friend,  William  Churchill,  is,  I  hear,  quite 
ill,  and  I  feel  desirous  to  see  him.  I  will  call  upon  you 
in  a  day  or  two,  and  then  we  will  have  another  talk 
about  your  affairs,  and  see  what  can  be  done  for  you. 
So  good  night,  Fanny ;  go  to  sleep  and  dream  of  your 
old  friend." 

Closing  the  door  after  Uncle  Joshua,  Mrs.  Morrison 
returned  to  her  room  with  a  heart  filled  with  thaakful- 
ness  that  so  kind  a  friend  had  been  sent  to  her  in  the 
hour  of  need  ;  while  the  old  gentleman  walked  with  rapid 
steps  through  several  streets  until  he  stood  at  the  door 
of  a  small,  but  pleasantly  situated  house  in  the  suburbs 
of  the  city.  His  ring  at  the  bell  was  answered  by  a 
pretty,  pleasant-looking  young  woman,  whom  he  ad- 
dressed as  Mrs.  Churchill,  and  kindly  inquired  for  her 
husband. 

"  William  is  very  feeble  to-day,  but  he  wiH  be  rejoiced 
to  see  you,  sir.  His  disease  is  partly  owing  to  anxiety 
of  mind,  I  think,  and  when  his  spirits  are  raised  by  a 
friendly  visit,  he  feels  better." 

Uncle  Joshua  followed  Mrs.  Churchill  to  the  small 
room  which  now  served  the  double  purpose  of  parlour 
tad  bedroom.  They  were  met  at  the  door  by  the  inva» 


PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET.     19 

lid,  "who  had  recognised  the  voice  of  his  old  friend,  and 
had  made  an  effort  to  rise  and  greet  him.  His  sunken 
countenance,  the  hectic  flush  which  glowed  upon  lua 
cheek,  and  the  listressing  cough,  gave  fearful  evidence 
that  unless  the  disease  was  soon  arrested  in  its  progress, 
consumption  would  mark  him  for  its  victim. 

The  friendly  visiter  was  inwardly  shocked  at  his  ap- 
pearance, but  wisely  made  no  allusion  to  it,  and  soon 
engaged  him  in  cheerful  conversation.  Gradually  ho 
led  him  to  speak  openly  of  his  own  situation, — of  his 
health,  and  of  the  pecuniary  difficulties  with  which  he 
was  struggling.  His  story  was  a  common  one.  A  young 
family  were  growing  up  around  him,  and  an  aged  mother 
and  invalid  sister  also  depended  upon  him  for  support. 
The  small  salary  which  he  obtained  as  clerk  in  one  of 
the  most  extensive  mercantile  establishments  in  the  city, 
was  quite  insufficient  to  meet  his  necessary  expenses. 
He  had,  therefore,  after  being  constantly  employed  from 
early  morning  until  a  late  hour  in  the  evening,  devoted 
two  or  three  hours  of  the  night  to  various  occupationa 
which  added  a  trifle  to  his  limited  income.  Sometimes 
he  procured  copying  of  various  kinds ;  at  others,  ac- 
counts, which  he  could  take  to  his  own  house,  were  in- 
trusted to  him.  This  incessant  application  had  gradually 
ruined  his  health,  and  now  for  several  weeks  he  had  been 
unable  to  leave  the  house. 

"  Have  you  had  advice  from  an  experienced  physician, 
William  ?"  inquired  Uncle  Joshua.  The  young  man 
blushed,  as  he  replied,  that  he  was  unwilling  to  send  for 
a  physician,  knowing  that  he  had  no  means  to  repay  hia 
services. 
4 


50    PUTTING  VOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET. 

"  I  will  send  my  own  doctor  to  see  you,"  returned  hia 
friend.  "  He  can  help  you  if  any  one  can,  and  as  for 
his  fee  I  will  attend  to  it,  and  if  you  regain  your  health 
I  shall  be  amply  repaid. — No,  do  not  thank  me,"  he 
continued,  as  Mr.  Churchill  endeavoured  to  express  his 
gratitude.  "  Your  father  has  done  me  many  a  favour, 
and  it  would  be  strange  if  I  could  not  extend  a  hand  to 
help  his  son  when  in  trouble.  And  now  tell  me,  William, 
is  not  your  salary  very  small,  considering  the  responsible 
situation  which  you  have  so  long  held  in  the  firm  of 
Stevenson  &  Co.?" 

"It  is,"  was  the  reply;  "but  I  see  no  prospect  of 
obtaining  more.  I  believe  I  have  always  given  perfect 
satisfaction  to  my  employer,  although  it  is  difficult  to 
ascertain  the  estimation  in  which  he  holds  me,  for  he  is 
a  man  who  never  praises.  He  has  never  found  fault 
with  me,  and  therefore  I  suppose  him  satisfied,  and  in- 
deed I  have  some  proof  of  this  in  his  willingness  to  wait 
two  or  three  months  in  the  hope  that  I  may  recover 
from  my  present  illness  before  making  a  permanent  en- 
gagement with  a  new  clerk.  Notwithstanding  this,  he 
has  never  raised  my  salary,  and  when  I  ventured  to  say 
to  him  about  a  year  ago,  that  as  his  business  had  nearly 
doubled  since  I  had  been  with  him,  I  felt  that  it  would 
be  but  just  that  I  should  derive  some  benefit  from  the 
change,  he  coolly  replied  that  my  present  salary  was  all 
that  he  had  ever  paid  a  clerk,  and  he  considered  it  a 
sufficient  equivalent  for  my  services.  He  knows  very 
well  that  it  is  difficult  to  obtain  a  good  situation,  there 
arc  so  many  who  stand  ready  to  fill  any  vacancy,  and 


PUTTING  TOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET      51 

therefore  he  feels  quite  safe  in  refusing  to  give  mo 
more." 

"And  yet,"  replied  Uncle  Joshua,  "'he  is  fully  aware 
that  the  advantage  resulting  from  your  long  experience 
and  thorough  acquaintance  with  his  business,  increases 
his  income  several  hundred  dollars  every  year,  and  this 
money  he  quietly  puts  into  his  own  pocket,  without  con- 
sidering or  caring  that  a  fair  proportion  of  it  should  in 
common  honesty  go  into  yours.  What  a  queer  world 
we  live  in  !  The  poor  thief  who  robs  you  of  your  watch 
or  pocket-book,  is  punished  without  delay ;  but  these 
wealthy  defrauders  fhaintain  their  respectability  and  pass 
for  honest  men,  even  while  withholding  what  they  know 
to  be  the  just  due  of  another. 

"  But  cheer  up,  William,  I  have  a  fine  plan  for  you, 
if  you  can  but  regain  your  health.  I  am  looking  for  a 
suitable  person  to  take  charge  of  a  large  sheep  farm, 
which  I  propose  establishing  on  the  land  which  I  own 
in  Virginia.  You  acquired  some  knowledge  of  farming 
in  your  early  days.  How  would  you  like  to  undertake 
this  business  ?  The  climate  is  delightful,  the  employment 
easy  and  pleasant ;  and  it  shall  be  my  care  that  your 
salary  is  amply  sufficient  for  the  support  of  your  family." 

Mr.  Churchill  could  hardly  command  his  voice  suffi- 
ciently to  express  his  thanks,  and  his  wife  burst  into 
tears,  as  she  exclaimed, 

"  If  my  poor  husband  had  confided  his  troubles  to 
you  before,  he  would  not  have  been  reduced  to  this  feeble 
state." 

"  He  will  recover,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "I  feel 
sure,  that  in  one  month,  he  will  look  like  a  different 


62    PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR'S  POCKET. 

man.  Rest  yourself,  now,  William,  and  to-morrow  I  will 
see  you  again." 

A.nd,  followed  by  the  blessings  and  thanks  of  the 
young  couple,  Uncle  Joshua  departed. 

"Past  ten  o'clock,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  paused 
near  a  lamp-post  and  looked  at  his  watch.  "I  must  go 
to  my  own  room." 

As  he  said  this,  he  was  startled  by  a  deep  sigh  from 
some  one  near,  and  on  looking  round,  saw  a  lad,  of  four- 
teen or  fifteen  years  of  age,  leaning  against  the  post, 
and  looking  earnestly  at  him. 

Uncle  Joshua  recognised  the  son*  of  a  poor  widow, 
whom  he  had  occasionally  befriended,  and  said,  kindly, 

"  Well,  John,  are  you  on  your  way  home  from  the 
Btore?  This  is  rather  a  late  hour  for  a  boy  like  you." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is  late.  I  cannot  bear  to  return  home 
to  my  poor  mother,  for  I  have  bad  news  for  her  to-night. 
Mr.  Mackenzie  does  not  wish  to  employ  me  any  more. 
My  year  is  up  to-day." 

"  Why,  John,  how  is  this  ?  Not  long  ago  your  em- 
ployer told  me  that  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  you ; 
indeed,  he  said  that  he  never  before  had  so  trusty  and 
useful  a  boy." 

"  He  has  always  appeared  satisfied  with  me,  sir,  and 
I  have  endeavoured  to  serve  him  faithfully.  But  ho 
t«ld  me  to-day  that  he  had  engaged  another  boy." 

Uncle  Joshua  mused  for  a  moment,  and  then  asked, 

"  What  was  he  to  give  you  for  the  first  year,  John  ?" 

"Nothing,  sir.  He  told  my  mother  that  my  services 
would  be  worth  nothing  the  first  year,  but  the  second  he 
would  pay  me  fifty  dollars,  and  so  increase  my  salary 


PUTTING  YOUR  HAND  IN  YOUR  NlIGHBOUR'8  POCKET.     {  J 

as  1  grew  older.  My  poor  mother  has  worked  very  hard 
to  support  me  this  year,  and  I  had  hoped  that  I  would 
be  able  to  help  her  soon.  But  it  is  all  over  now,  and  I 
suppose  I  must  take  a  boy's  place  again,  and  work  ano- 
ther year  for  nothing." 

"  And  then  be  turned  off  again.  Another  set  of  pick- 
pockets," muttered  his  indignant  auditor. 

"  Pickpockets  !"  exclaimed  the  lad.  "  Did  any  one 
take  your  watch  just  now,  sir  ?  I  saw  a  man  look  at  it 
as  you  took  it  out.  Perhaps  we  can  overtake  him.  I 
think  he  turned  into  the  next  street." 

"  No,  no,  my  boy.  My  wg,tch  is  safe  enough.  I  am 
not  thinking  of  street  pickpockets,  but  of  another  class 
whom  you  will  find  out  as  you  grow  older.  But  never 
mind  losing  your  place,  John.  My  nephew  is  in  want  of  a 
boy  who  has  had  some  experience  in  your  business,  and  will 
pay  him  a  fair  salary — more  than  Mr.  Mackenzie  agreed 
to  give  you  for  the  second  year,  I  will  mention  you  to 
him,  and  you  may  call  at  his  store  to-morrow  at  eleven 
o'clock,  and  we  will  see  if  you  will  answer  his  purpose." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  am  sure  I  thank  you ;  and  mother 
will  bless  you  for  your  kindness,"  replied  the  boy,  his 
countenance  glowing  with  animation ;  and  with  a  grate- 
ful "good  night,"  he  darted  off  in  die  direction  of  bis 
own  home. 

"  There  goes  a  grateful  heart,"  thought  Uncle  Joshua, 
as  he  gazed  after  the  boy  until  he  turned  the  corner  of 
the  street  and  disappeared.  "  !J#  has  lost  his  situation 
merely  because  another  can  be  found  who  will  do  th« 
work  for  nothing  for  a  year,  in  the  vain  hope  of  future 
recompense.  I  wisfc  Mary  could  have  be^n  witfc  me 


64  KIND    \\ORD8. 

this  evening ;  I  think  she  would  have  acknowledged  that 
there  are  many  respectable  pickpockets  who  deserve  to 
accompany  poor  Thomas  to  BlackwelTa  Island ;"  and 
thus  soliloquizing,  Uncle  Joshua  reached  the  door  of  his 
boarding-house,  and  sought  repose  in  his  own  room. 


KIND    WORDS. 

WE  have  more  than  once,  in  our  rapidly  written 
reflections,  urged  the  policy  and  propriety  of  kindness, 
courtesy,  and  good-will  between  man  and  man.  It  is  so 
easy  for  an  individual  to  manifest  amenity  of  spirit,  to 
avoid  harshness,  and  thus  to  cheer  and  gladden  the 
paths  of  all  over  whom  he  may  have  influence  or  con- 
trol, that  it  is  really  surprising  to  find  any  one  pursuing 
the  very  opposite  course.  Strange  as  it  may  appear, 
there  are  among  the  children  of  men,  hundreds  who 
seem  to  take  delight  in  making  others  unhappy.  They 
rejoice  at  an  opportunity  of  being  the  messengers  of 
evil  tidings.  They  are  jealous  or  malignant ;  and  in 
either  case  they  exult  in  inflicting  a  wound.  The 
ancients,  in  most  nations,  had  a  peculiar  dislike  to 
croakers,  prophets  of  evil,  and  the  bearers  of  evil 
tidings.  It  is  recorded  that  the  messenger  from  the 
banks  of  the  Tigris,  who  first  announced  the  defeat  of 
the  Roman  army  by  the  Persians,  i.nd  the  death  of  the 
Emperor  Julian,  in  a  Roman  city  of  Asia  Minor,  waa 
instantly  buried  under  a  heap  of  stones  thrown  upon 


KIND   WORDS.  55 

him  by  an  indignant  populace.  And  yet  this  messengei 
was  innocent,  and  reluctantly  discharged  a  painful  duty. 
But  how  different  the  spirit  and  the  motive  of  volunteers 
in  such  cases — those  who  exult  in  an  opportunity  of 
communicating  bad  news,  and  in  some  degree  revel  over 
the  very  agony  which  it  produces.  The  sensitive,  the 
generous,  the  honourable,  would  ever  be  spared  from 
such  painful  missions.  A  case  of  more  recent  occur- 
rence may  be  referred  to  as  in  point.  We  allude  to  the 
murder  of  Mr.  Roberts,  a  farmer  of  New  Jersey,  who 
was;  robbed  arid  shot  in  his  own  wagon,  near  Camden. 
It  became  necessary  that  the  sad  intelligence  should  be 
broken  to  his  wife  and  family  with  as  much  delicacy  as 
possible.  A  neighbour  was  selected  for  the  task,  and 
at  first  consented.  But,  on  consideration,  his  heart 
failed  him.  He  could  not,  he  said,  communicate  the 
details  of  a  tragedy  so  appalling,  and  he  begged  to  be 
excused.  Another,  formed  it  was  thought  of  sterner 
stuff,  was  then  fixed  upon :  but  he  too,  rough  and  bluff 
as  he  was  in  his  ordinary  manners,  possessed  the  heart 
of  a  generous  and  sympathetic  human  being,  and  also 
respectfully  declined.  A  third  made  a  like  objection, 
and  at  last  a  female  friend  of  the  family  was  with  much 
difficulty  persuaded,  in  company  with  another,  to  under- 
take the  mournful  task.  And  yet,  we  repeat,  there  are 
in  society,  individuals  who  delight  in  contributing  to  the 
misery  of  others — who  are  eager  to  circulate  a  slander, 
to  chronicle  a  ruin,  to  revive  a  forgotten  error,  to  wound, 
sting,  and  annoy,  whenever  they  may  do  so  with  impu- 
nity. How  much  better  the  gentle,  the  generous,  tho 
magnanimous  policy  !  Why  not  do  everything  that  may 


06  KIND    WORDS. 

be  done  for  the  happiness  of  our  fellow  creatures,  with- 
out seeking  out  their  weak  points,  irritating  their  half- 
healed  wounds,  jarring  their  sensibilities,  or  embittering 
their  thoughts !  The  magic  of  kind  words  and  a  kind 
manner  can  scarcely  be  over-estimated.  Our  fellow 
•creatures  are  more  sensitive  than  is  generally  imagined. 
We  have  known  cases  in  which  a  gentle  courtesy  has 
been  remembered  with  pleasure  for  years.  Who  indeed 
cannot  look  back  into  "bygone  time,"  and  discover 
some  smile,  some  look  or  other  demonstration  of  regard 
or  esteem,  calculated  to  bless  and  brighten  every  hour 
of  after  existence!  "Kind  words,"  says  an  eminent 
writer,  "  do  not  cost  much.  It  does  not  take  long  to 
utter  them.  They  never  blister  the  tongue  or  lips  on 
their  passage  into  the  world,  or  occasion  any  other  kind 
of  bodily  suffering;  and  we  have  never  heard  of  any 
mental  trouble  arising  from  this  quarter.  Though 
they  do  not  cost  much,  yet  they  accomplish  much. 
1.  They  help  one's  own  good  nature  and  good  will.  One 
cannot  be  in  a  habit  of  this  kind,  without  thereby  peck- 
ing away  something  of  the  granite  roughness  of  his  own 
nature.  Soft  words  will  soften  his  own  soul.  Philoso- 
phers tell  us  that  the  angry  words  a  man  uses  in  his 
passion  are  fuel  to  the  flame  of  his  wrath,  and  make  it 
blaze  the  more  fiercely.  Why,  then,  should  not  words 
of  the  opposite  character  produce  opposite  results,  and 
that  most  blessed  of  all  passions  of  the  soul,  kindness, 
be  augmented  by  kind  words  ?  People  that  are  for  ever 
speaking  kindly,  are  for  ever  disinclining  themselves  to 
ill- temper.  2.  Kind  words  make  other  people  good- 
natured.  Cold  words  freeze  people,  and  hot  words 


KIND    WORDS.  57 

scorch  them,  and  sarcastic  words  irritate  them,  and 
bitter  words  make  them  bitter,  and  wrathful  words  make 
them  wrathful.  And  kind  words  also  produce  their 
own  image  on  men's  souls ;  and  a  beautiful  image  it  is. 
They  soothe,  and  quiet,  and  comfort  the  hearer.  They 
Bhame  him  out  of  his  sour,  morose,  unkind  feelings ;  and 
he  has  to  become  kind  himself.  There  is  such  a  rush 
of  all  other  kinds  of  words  in  our  days,  that  it  seems  de- 
sirable to  give  kind  words  a  chance  among  them.  There 
are  vain  words,  idle  words,  hasty  words,  spiteful  words, 
silly  words,  and  empty  words.  Now  kind  words  are 
better  than  the  whole  of  them ;  and  it  is  a  pity  that, 
among  the  improvements  of  the  present  age,  birds  of 
this  feather  might  not  have  more  of  a  chance  than  they 
have  had  to  spread  their  wings." 

It  is  indeed  !  Kind  words  should  be  brought  into 
more  general  use.  Those  in  authority  should  employ 
them  more  frequently,  when  addressing  the  less  fortunate 
among  mankind.  Employers  should  use  them  in  their 
intercourse  with  their  workmen.  Parents  should  utter 
them  on  every  occasion  to  their  children.  The  rich 
should  never  forget  an  opportunity  of  speaking  kindly 
to  the  poor.  Neighbours  and  friends  should  emulate 
each  other  in  the  employment  of  mild,  gentle,  frank, 
and  kindly  language.  But  this  cannot  be  done  unless 
each  endeavours  to  control  himself.  Our  passions  and 
our  prejudices  must  be  kept  in  check.  If  we  find  that 
we  have  a  neighbour  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  who 
has  been  more  fortunate  in  a  worldly  sense  than  we  have 
bf;en,  and  if  we  discover  a  little  jealousy  or  envy  creep- 
ing into  our  opinions  and  fee'ings  concerning  said  neigh- 


58  NEIGHBOURS'  QUARRELS. 

hour — let  us  be  careful,  endeavour  to  put  a  rein  upon 
Dur  tovigucs,  and  it  avoid  the  indulgence  of  malevolence 
or  ill-mil.  If  we,  on  the  other  hand,  have  been  fortu- 
nate, have  enough  and  to  spare,  and  there  happens  to 
be  in  our  circle  some  who  are  dependent  upon  us,  some 
who  look  up  to  us  with  love  and  respect — let  us  be 
generous,  courteous,  and  kind — and  thus  we  shall  not 
only  discharge  a  duty,  but  prove  a  source  of  happiness 
to  f/  sers. 


NEIGHBOURS'  QUARRELS. 

MOST  people  think  there  are  cares  enough  in  the  world, 
and  yet  many  are  very  industrious  to  increase  them  :  — 
One  of  the  readiest  ways  of  doing  this  is  to  quarrel  with 
a  neighbour.  A  bad  bargain  may  vex  a  man  for  a  week, 
and  a  bad  debt  may  trouble  him  for  a  month ;  but  » 
quarrel  with  his  neighbours  will  keep  him  in  hot  water 
all  the  year  round. 

Aaron  Hands  delights  in  fowls,  and  his  cocks  and 
hens  are  always  scratching  up  the  flowerbeds  of  his 
neighbour  William  Wilkes,  whose  mischievous  tom-cat 
every  now  and  then  runs  off  with  a  chicken.  The  conse- 
quence is,  that  William  Wilkins  is  one  half  the  day  oc- 
cupied in  driving  away  the  fowls,  and  threatening  to 
screw  their  long  ugly  necks  off;  while  Aaron  Hands,  in 
his  periodical  outbreaks,  invariably  vows  to  skin  hia 
neighbour's  cat,  as  sure  as  he  can  lay  hold  of  him. 


NEIGHBOURS"  QUARRELS.  59 

Neighbours !  Neighbours !  Why  can  you  not  be  at 
peace  ?  Not  all  the  fowls  you  can  rear,  and  the  flowers 
you  can  grow,  will  make  amends  for  a  life  of  anger, 
hatred,  malice,  and  uncharitableness.  Come  to  some 
kind-hearted  understanding  one  with  another,  and  dwell 
in  peace. 

Upton,  the  refiner,  has  a  smoky  chimney,  that  sets 
him  and  all  the  neighbourhood  by  the  ears.  The  people 
around  abuse  him  without  mercy,  complaining  that  they 
are  poisoned,  and  declaring  that  they  will  indict  him  at 
the  sessions.  Upton  fiercely  sets  them  at  defiance,  on 
the  ground  that  his  premises  were  built  before  theirs,  that 
his  chimney  did  not  come  to  them,  but  that  they  came 
to  his  chimney. 

Neighbours  !  Neighbours  !  practise  a  little  more  for- 
bearance. Had  half  a  dozen  of  you  waited  on  the  refiner 
in  a  kindly  spirit,  he  would  years  ago  have  so  altered 
his  chimney,  that  it  would  not  have  annoyed  you. 

Mrs.  Tibbets  is  thoughtless — if  it  were  not  so  she  would 
never  have  had  her  large  dusty  carpet  beaten,  when  her 
neighbour,  who  had  n  wash,  was  having  her  wet  clothes 
hung  out  to  dry.  Mrs.  Williams  is  hasty  and  passionate, 
or  she  would  never  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  the 
carpet  was  beaten  on  purpose  to  spite  her,  and  give  her 
trouble.  As  it  is,  Mrs.  Tibbets  and  Mrs.  Williams  ha  to 
^ne  another  with  a  perfect  hatred. 

Neighbours  !  Neighbours  !  bear  with  one  another.  We 
are  none  of  us  angels,  and  should  not,  therefore,  expect 
chose  abou ;  us  to  be  free  fi  om  faults. 

They  who  attempt  to  out- wrangle  a  quarrelsome 
neighbour,  go  the  wrong  w.-\y  to  work.  A  kind  word, 


80  NEIGHBOURS'  QUARRELS. 

and  still  more  a  kind  deed,  will  be  more  likely  to  b« 
successful.  Two  children  wanted  to  pass  by  a  savage 
dog:  the  one  took  a  stick  in  his  hand  and  pointed  it  at 
him,  but  this  only  made  the  enraged  creature  more 
furious  than  before.  The  other  child  adopted  a  different 
plan ;  for  by  giving  the  dog  a  piece  of  his  bread  and 
butter,  he  was  allowed  to  pass,  the  subdued  animal 
wagging  his  tail  in  quietude.  If  you  happen  to  have  a 
quarrelsome  neighbour,  conquer  him  by  civility  and 
kindness  ;  try  the  bread  and  butter  system,  and  keep 
your  stick  out  of  sight.  That  \K  an  excellent  Christian 
admonition,  "  A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath,  but 
grievous  words  stir  up  anger." 

Neighbours'  quarrels  are  a  mutual  reproach,  and  yet 
a  stick  or  a  straw  is  sufficient  to  promote  them.  One 
man  is  rich,  and  another  poor ;  one  is  a  churchman, 
another  a  dissenter ;  one  is  a  conservative,  another  a 
liberal ;  one  hates  another  because  he  is  of  the  same 
trade,  and  another  is  bitter  with  his  neighbour  because 
he  is  a  Jew  or  a  Roman  Catholic. 

Neighbours !  Neighbours !  live  in  love,  and  then 
while  you  make  others  happy,  you  will  be  happier  your- 
selves. 

"That  happy  man  i&  surely  blest, 
Who  of  the  worst  things  makes  the  best ; 
Whilst  he  must  be  of  temper  curst, 
Who  of  the  best  things  makes  the  worst." 

"Be  ye  all  of  one  mind,"  says  the  Apostle,  "having 
compassion  one  of  another ;  love  as  brethren,  be  pitiful, 
be  courteous ;  not  rendering  evil  for  evil,  or  railing  for 
railing,  but  contrariwise  blessing."  To  a  rich  man  1 


GOOD    WE    MIGHT   DO.  61 

would  say,  bear  with  and  try  to  serve  those  who  ar» 
you;  and  to  a  poor  one — 

"  Fear  God,  love  peace,  and  mind  your  labour ; 
Arid  never,  never  quarrel  with  your  neighbour-" 


GOOD  WE  MIGHT  DO. 

WE  all  might  do  good 

Where  we  often  do  ill ; 
There  is  always  the  way, 

If  we  have  but  the  will ; 
Though  it  be  but  a  word 

Kindly  breathed  or  supprest, 
It  may  guard  off  some  pain, 

Or  give  peace  to  some  breast. 

We  all  might  do  good 

In  a  thousand  small  ways— 
In  forbearing  to  flatter, 

Yet  yielding  due  praise—- 
In spurning  ill  humour, 

Reproving  wrong  done, 
And  treating  but  kindly 

Each  heart  we  have  won. 

We  all  might  do  good, 

Whether  lowly  or  great, 
For  the  deed  is  not  gauged 

By  the  purse  or  estate ; 
If  it  be  but  a  cup 

Of  cold  water  that's  given, 
lake  "  the  widow's  two  mites/* 

It  is  something  for  Heavea. 


THE  TOWN  LOT. 

ONCE  upon  a  time  it  happened  that  the  men  who 
governed  the  municipal  affairs  of  a  certain  growing  town 
in  the  West,  resolved,  in  grave  deliberation  assembled, 
to  purchase  a  five-acre  lot  at  the  north  end  of  the  city — 
recently  incorporated — and  have  it  improved  for  a  park 
or  public  square.  Now,  it  also  happened,  that  all  the 
saleable  ground  lying  north  of  the  city  was  owned  by  a 
man  named  Smith — a  shrewd,  wide-awake  individual, 
whose  motto  was  "Every  man  for  himself,"  with  an 
occasional  addition  about  a  certain  gentleman  in  black 
taking  "  the  hindmost." 

Smith,  it  may  be  mentioned,  was  secretly  at  the  bot- 
tom of  this  scheme  for  a  public  square,  and  had  himself 
suggested  the  matter  to  an  influential  member  of  the 
council ;  not  that  he  was  moved  by  what  is  denominated 
public  spirit — no ;  the  spring  of  action  in  the  case  was 
merely  "  private  spirit,"  or  a  regard  for  his  own  good. 
If  the  council  decided  upon  a  public  square,  he  was  the 
man  from  whom  the  ground  would  have  to  be  bought ; 
and  he  was  the  man  who  could  get  his  own  price  there- 
for. 

As  we  have  said,  the  park  was  decided  upon,  and  a 
committee  of  two  appointed  whose  business  it  was  to  see 
Smith,  and  arrange  with  him  for  the  purchase  of  a  suit- 
able lot  of  ground.  In  due  form  the  committee  called 
upon  the  landholder,  who  was  fully  prepared  for  the 
interview. 


THE   TOWN    LOT.  63 

"  You  are  the  owner  of  those  lots  at  the  north  end  ?" 
said  the  spokesman  of  the  committee. 

"  I  am,"  replied  Smith,  with  becoming  gravity. 

"  Will  you  sell  a  portion  of  ground,  say  five  acres,  to 
Ihecity?" 

"  For  what  purpose  ?"  Smith  knew  very  well  for 
what  purpose  the  land  was  wanted. 

"  We  have  decided  to  set  apart  about  five  acres  of 
ground,  and  improve  it  as  a  kind  of  park,  or  public 
promenade." 

"Have  you,  indeed?  Well,  I  like  that,"  said  Smith, 
with  animation.  "It  shows  the  right  kind  of  public 
spirit." 

"  We  have,  moreover,  decided  that  the  best  location 
will  be  at  the  north  end  of  the  town." 

"  Decidedly  my  own  opinion,"  returned  Smith. 

"  Will  you  sell  us  the  required  acres  ?"  asked  one  of 
the  councilmen. 

"  That  will  depend  somewhat  upon  where  you  wish  to 
locate  the  park." 

The  particular  location  was  named. 

"  The  very  spot,"  replied  Smith,  promptly,  "  upon 
which  I  have  decided  to  erect  four  rows  of  dwellings." 

"But  it  is  too  far  out  for  that,"  was  naturally  ob- 
jected. 

"  0,  no ;  not  a  rod.  The  city  is  rapidly  growing  in 
that  direction.  I  have  only  to  put  up  the  dwellings  re- 
ferred to,  and  dozens  will  be  anxious  to  purchase  lots, 
and  build  all  around  them.  Won't  the  ground  to  the 
left  of  that  you  speak  of  answer  as  well?" 

But  the  committee  replied  in  the  negative.     The  lot 


64  THE   TOWN    LOT. 

they  had  mentioned  was  the  one  decided  upon  as  most 
suited  for  the  purpose,  and  they  were  not  prepared  W 
think  of  any  other  location. 

All  this  Smith  understood  very  well.  He  was  not 
only  willing,  but  anxious  for  the  city  to  purchase  the  lot 
they  were  negotiating  for.  All  he  wanted  was  to  get  a 
good  round  price  for  the  same — say  four  or  five  times 
the  real  value.  So  he  feigned  indifference,  and  threw 
difficulties  in  the  way. 

A  few  years  previous  to  this  time,  Smith  had  pur- 
chased a  considerable  tract  of  land  at  the  north  of  the 
then  flourishing  village,  at  fifty  dollars  an  acre.  Its 
present  value  was  about  three  hundred  dollars  an  acre. 

After  a  good  deal  of  talk  on  both  sides,  Smith  finally 
agreed  to  sell  the  particular  lot  pitched  upon.  The  next 
thing  was  to  arrange  as  to  price. 

"  At  what  do  you  hold  this  ground  per  acre  ?" 

It  was  some  time  before  Smith  answered  this  question. 
His  eyes  were  cast  upon  the  floor,  and  earnestly  did  he 
enter  into  debate  with  himself  as  to  the  value  he  should 
place  upon  the  lot.  At  first  he  thought  of  five  hundred 
dollars  per  acre.  But  his  cupidity  soon  caused  him  to 
advance  on  that  sum,  although,  a  month  before,  he  would 
have  caught  at  such  an  offer.  Then  he  advanced  to  six, 
to  seren,  and  to  eight  hundred.  And  still  he  felt  unde- 
cided. 

"  I  can  get  my  own  price,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  The 
city  has  to  pay,  and  I  might  just  as  well  get  a  large  sura 
as  a  small  one." 

•'For  what  price  will  you  sell?"  The  question  was 
repeated. 


THE   TOWN   LOT.  65 

"  I  must  have  a  good  price." 

"  We  are  willing  to  pay  what  is  fair  and  right." 

"  Of  course.  No  doubt  you  have  fixed  a  limit  to  •which 
you  will  go." 

"Not  exactly  that,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"Are  you  prepared  to  make  an  offer  ?" 

"  We  are  prepared  to  hear  your  price,  and  to  make  a 
report  thereon,"  was  replied. 

"  That's  a  very  valuable  lot  of  ground,"  said  Smith. 

"Name  your  price."  returned  one  of  the  committee- 
men,  a  little  impatiently. 

Thus  brought  up  to  the  point,  Smith,  after  thinking 
hurriedly  for  a  few  moments,  said — 

"  One  thousand  dollars  an  acre." 

Both  the  men  shook  their  heads  in  a  very  positive  way. 
Smith  said  that  it  was  the  lowest  he  would  take ;  and  so 
the  conference  ended. 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  city  councils,  a  report  on 
the  town  lot  was  made,  and  the  extraordinary  demand 
of  Smith  canvassed.  It  was  unanimously  decided  not 
to  make  the  proposed  purchase. 

When  this  decision  reached  the  landholder,  he  was  con- 
siderably disappointed.  He  wanted  money  badly,  and 
would  have  "jumped  at"  two  thousand  dollars  for  the 
five  acre  lot,  if  satisfied  that  it  would  bring  no  more. 
But  when  the  city  came  forward  as  a  purchaser,  his  cu- 
pidity was  subjected  to  a  very  strong  temptation.  He 
believed  that  he  could  get  five  thousand  dollars  as  easily 
as  two  ;  and  quieted  his  conscience  by  the  salvo — "  An 
article  is  always  worth  what  it  will  bring." 


66  THE   TOWN    LOT. 

A  week  or  two  went  by,  and  Snr.c,n  was  about  callii  t 
upon  one  of  the  members  of  the  council,  to  say  that,  if 
the  city  really  w Anted  the  lot  he  would  sell  at  their  price, 
leaving  it  with  the  council  to  act  justly  and  generously, 
when  a  friend  said  to  him, 

"  I  hear  that  the  council  had  the  subject  of  a  public 
square  under  consideration  again  this  morning." 

"  Indeed  !"  Smith  was  visibly  excited,  though  he  tried 
to  appear  calm. 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  also  hear  that  they  have  decided  to  pay 
the  extravagant  price  you  asked  for  a  lot  of  ground  at 
the  north  end  of  the  city." 

"  A  thousand  dollars  an  acre  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Its  real  value,  and  not  a  cent  more,"  said  Smith. 

"  People  differ  about  that.  However,  you  are  lucky," 
the  friend  replied.  "  The  city  is  able  to  pay." 

"  So  I  think.     And  I  mean  they  shall  pay." 

Before  the  committee,  to  whom  the  matter  was  given 
in  charge,  had  time  to  call  upon  Smith,  and  close  with 
him  for  the  lot,  that  gentleman  had  concluded  in  his  own 
mind  that  it  would  be  just  as  easy  to  get  twelve  hundred 
dollars  an  acre  as  a  thousand.  It  was  plain  that  the 
council  were  bent  upon  having  the  ground,  and  would 
pay  a  round  sum  for  it.  It  was  just  the  spot  for  a  public 
square;  and  the  city -must  become  the  owner.  So,  when 
he  was  called  upon  by  the  gentlemen,  and  they  said  to 
him, 

"We  are  authorized  to  pay  you  your  price,"  he 
promptly  answered, 


THE   TOWN    LOT.  67 

"  The  offer  is  no  longer  open.  You  declined  it  when 
it.  was  made.  My  price  for  that  property  is  now  twelve 
hundred  dollars  an  acre." 

The  men  offered  remonstrance  ;  but  it  was  of  no  avail. 
Smith  believed  that  he  could  get  six  thousand  dollars  for 
the  ground  as  easily  as  five  thousand.  The  city  must 
have  the  lot,  and  would  pay  almost  any  price. 

"  I  hardly  think  it  right,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  one  of  hia 
visiters,  "  for  you  to  take  such  an  advantage.  This 
square  is  for  the  public  good." 

'*  Let  the  public  pay,  then,"  was  the  unhesitating  an- 
swer. "  The  public  is  able  enough." 

"  The  location  of  this  park,  at  the  north  end  of  the 
city,  will  greatly  improve  the  value  of  your  other  pro- 
perty." 

This  Smith  understood  very  well.     But  he  replied, 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  have  some  very  strong 
doubts  on  the  subject.  It's  my  opinion  that  the  buildings 
I  contemplated  erecting  will  be  far  more  to  my  advan- 
tage. Be  that  as  it  may,  however,  I  am  decided  in  sell- 
ing for  nothing  less  than  six  thousand  dollars." 

"We  are  only  authorized  to  pay  five  thousand,"  re- 
plied the  committee.  "  If  you  agree  to  take  that  sum, 
we  will  close  the  bargain  on  the  spot." 

Five  thousand  dollars  was  a  large  sum  of  money,  and 
Smith  felt  strongly  tempted  to  close  in  with  the  liberal 
offer.  But  six  thousand  loomed  up  before  his  imagina- 
tion still  more  temptingly. 

"  I  can  get  it,"  said  he  to  himself;  "  and  the  prrpertj 
is  worth  what  it  will  bring.'' 


68  THE   TOWN   LOT. 

So  he  positively  declined  to  sell  it  at  a  thousand  dol- 
lars per  acre. 

"At  twelve  hundred  you  will  sell?"  remarked  one  of 
the  committee,  as  they  were  about  retiring. 

"  Yes.  I  will  take  twelve  hundred  the  acre.  That 
is  the  lowest  rate,  and  I  am  not  anxious  even  at  that 
price.  I  can  do  quite  as  well  by  keeping  it  in  my  own 
possession.  But,  as  you  seem  so  bent  on  having  it,  I 
will  not  stand  in  your  way.  When  will  the  council  meet 
again?" 

"  Not  until  next  week." 

"  Very  well.  If  they  then  accept  my  offer,  all  will 
be  right.  But,  understand  me ;  if  they  do  not  accept, 
the  offer  no  longer  remains  open.  It  is  a  matter  of  no 
moment  to  me  which  way  the  thing  goes." 

It  was  a  matter  of  moment  to  Smith,  for  all  this  asser- 
tion— a  matter  of  very  great  moment.  He  had  several 
thousand  dollars  to  pay  in  the  course  of  the  next  few 
months  on  land  purchases,  and  no  way  to  meet  the  pay- 
ments, except  by  Mortgages,  or  sales  of  property;  and, 
it  may  naturally  be  concluded,  that  he  suffered  consid- 
erable uneasiness  during  the  time  which  passed  until  the 
next  meeting  of  the  council. 

Of  course,  the  grasping  disposition  shown  by  Smith, 
became  the  town  talk ;  and  people  said  a  good  many 
hard  things  of  him.  Little,  however,  did  he  care,  so 
that  he  secured  six  thousand  dollars  for  a  lot  not  worth 
more  than  two  thousand. 

Among  other  residents  and  property  holders  in  the 
town,  was  a  simple-minded,  true-hearted,  honest  man, 
named  Jones.  His  father  had  left  him  a  large  farm,  a 
goodly  portion  of  which,  in  process  of  time,  came  to 


THE   TOWN   LOT.  69 

be  included  in  the  limits  of  the  new  city ;  and  he  found 
a  much  more  profitable  employment  in  selling  building 
lots  than  in  tilling  the  soil.  The  property  of  Mr.  Jones 
lay  at  the  west  side  of  the  town. 

Now,  when  Mr.  Jones  heard  of  the  exorbitant  de- 
mand made  by  Smith  for  a  five  acre  lot,  his  honest  heart 
throbbed  with  a  feeling  of  indignation. 

"  I  couldn't  have  believed  it  of  him,"  said  he.  "  Six 
thousand  dollars  !  Preposterous  !  Why,  I  would  give 
the  city  a  lot  of  twice  the  size,  and  do  it  with  pleasure." 

"You  would?"  said  a  member  of  the  council,  who 
happened  to  hear  this  remark. 

"  Certainly  I  would." 

"  You  are  really  in  earnest  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly.  Go  and  select  a  public  square  from 
any  of  my  unappropriated  land  on  the  west  side  of  the 
city,  and  I  will  pass  you  the  title  as  a  free  gift  to-mor- 
row, and  feel  pleasure  in  doing  so.' 

*'  That  is  public  spirit,"  said  the  councilman. 

"  Call  it  what  you  will.  I  am  pleased  in  making  the 
offer." 

Now,  let  it  not  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Jones  was 
shrewdly  calculating  the  advantage  which  would  result 
to  him  from  having  a  park  at  the  west  side  of  the  city. 
No  such  thought  had  yet  entered  his  mind.  He  spoke 
from  the  impulse  of  a  generous  feeling. 

Time  passed  on,  and  the  session  day  of  the  council 
came  round — a  day  to  which  Smith  had  looked  forward 
with  no  ordinary  feelings  of  interest,  that  were  touched 
at  times  by  the  coldness  of  doubt,  and  the  agitation  of 
uncertainty.  Several  times  he  had  more  than  half 


70  THE   TOWN   LOT. 

repented  of  his  refusal  to  accept  the  liberal  offer  of  five 
thousand  dollars,  and  of  having  fixed  so  positively  upon 
six  thousand  as  the  "lowest  figure." 

The  morning  of  the  day  passed,  and  Smith  began  to 
grow  uneasy.  He  did  not  venture  to  seek  for  informa- 
tion as  to  the  doings  of  the  council,  for  that  would  be 
to  expose  the  anxiety  he  felt  in  the  result  of  their  de- 
liberations. Slowly  the  afternoon  wore  away,  and  it  so 
happened  that  Smith  did  not  meet  any  one  of  the  coun- 
cilmen  ;  nor  did  he  even  know  whether  the  council  was 
still  in  session  or  not.  As  to  making  allusion  to  the 
subject  of  his  anxious  interest  to  any  one,  that  was  care- 
fully avoided ;  for  he  knew  that  his  exorbitant  demand 
was  the  town  talk — and  he  wished  to  affect  the  most 
perfect  indifference  on  the  subject. 

The  day  closed,  and  not  a  whisper  about  the  town  lot 
had  come  to  the  ears  of  Mr.  Smith.  What  could  it 
mean  ?  Had  his  offer  to  sell  at  six  thousand  been 
rejected  ?  The  very  thought  caused  his  heart  to  gro^ 
heavy  in  his  bosom.  Six,  seven,  eight  o'clock  came, 
and  still  it  was  all  dark  with  Mr.  Smith.  He  could  bear 
the  suspense  no  longer,  and  so  determined  to  call  upon 
his  neighbour  Wilson,  who  was  a  member  of  the  coun- 
cil, and  learn  from  him  what  had  been  done. 

So  he  called  on  Mr.  Wilson. 

"Ah,  friend  Smith,"  said  the  latter;  "how  are  you 
this  evening  ?" 

"  Well,  I  thank  you,"  returned  Smith,  feeling  a  cer- 
tain oppression  of  the  chest.  "How  are  you?" 

•'  Oh,  very  well." 

Here  there  was  a  pause.     After  which  Smith  said. 


THE   TOWN    LOT.  71 

"  About  that  ground  of  mine.     What  did  you  dc  ?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Wilson,  coldly. 

"Nothing,  did  you  say?"  Smith's  voice  was  a  little 
husky. 

"  No.  You  declined  our  offer ;  or,  rather,  the  high 
price  fixed  by  yourself  upon  the  land." 

"  You  refused  to  buy  it  at  five  thousand,  when  it  waa 
offered,"  said  Smith. 

"  I  know  we  did,  because  your  demand  was  exorbi- 
tant." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  returned  Smith  quickly. 

"In  that  we  only  differ,"  said  Wilson.  "However, 
the  council  has  decided  not  to  pay  you  the  price  you 
ask." 

"  Unanimously  ?" 

"  There  was  not  a  dissenting  voice." 

Smith  began  to  feel  more  and  more  uncomfortable. 

"I  might  take  something  less,"  he  ventured  to  say, 
in  a  low,  hesitating  voice. 

"It  is  too  late  now,"  was  Mr.  Wilson's  prompt  reply. 

"  Too  late  !     How  so  ?" 

"We  have  procured  a  lot." 

"Mr.  Wilson!"  Poor  Smith  started  to  his  feet  in 
chagrin  and  astonishment. 

"Yes;  we  have  taken  one  of  Jones's  lots  on  the  west 
ei  le  of  the  city.  A  beautiful  ten  acre  lot." 

"  You  have  !"     Smith  was  actually  pale. 

"  We  have  ;  and  the  title  deeds  are  now  being  made 
out." 

It  was  some  time  before  Smith  had  suffi  Gently  reco 


72  THE   TOWN   LOT. 

rered  from  the  stunning  effect  of  this  unlooked-for  intel- 
ligence, to  make  the  inquiry, 

"  And  pray  how  much  did  Jones  ask  for  his  ten  acre 
lot." 

"  He  presented  it  to  the  city  as  a  gift,"  replied  the 
councilman. 

"A  gift!     What  folly!" 

"  No,  not  folly — but  true  worldly  wisdom  ;  though  I 
believe  Jones  did  not  think  of  advantage  to  himself  when 
he  generously  made  the  offer.  He  is  worth  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  more  to-day  than  he  was  yesterday,  in  the 
simple  advanced  value  of  his  land  for  building  lots. 
And  I  know  of  no  man  in  this  town  whose  good  fortune 
affects  me  with  more  pleasure." 

Smith  stole  back  to  his  home  with  a  mountain  of  dis- 
appointment on  his  heart.  In  his  cupidity  he  had 
entirely  overreached  himself,  and  he  saw  that  the 
consequences  were  to  react  upon  all  his  future  pros- 
perity. The  public  square  at  the  west  end  of  the  town 
would  draw  improvements  in  that  direction,  all  the  while 
increasing  the  wealth  of  Mr.  Jones,  while  lots  at  the 
north  end  would  remain  at  present  prices,  or,  it  might 
be,  take  a  downward  range. 

And  so  it  proved.  In  ten  years,  Jones  was  the 
richest  man  in  the  town,  while  half  of  Smith's  property 
had  been  sold  for  taxes.  The  five  acre  lot  passed  from 
lii<5  hands,  under  the  hammer,  in  the  foreclosure  of  a 
mortgage,  for  one  thousand  dollars  ! 

Thus  it  is  that  inordinate  selfishness  and  cupidity 
overreach  themselves ;  while  the  liberal  man  deviseth 
liberal  things,  and  is  sustained  thereby. 


THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  RAINDROP 

A.  SUNBEAM  and  a  raindrop  met  together  in  the  sky 
One  afternoon  in  sunny  June,  when  earth  was  parched  ar  1  drtj 
Each  quarrelled  for  the  precedence  ('twas  so  the  story  ran), 
And  the  golden  sunbeam,  warmly,  the  quarrel  thus  began:— 

"  What  were  the  earth  without  me  ?     I  come  with  beauty  brignt, 
She  smiles  to  hail  my  presence,  and  rejoices  in  my  light; 
I  deck  the  hill  and  valley  with  manjr  a  lovely  hue, 
I  give  the  rose  its  blushes,  and  the  violet  its  blue. 

"  I  steal  within  the  window,  and  through  the  cottage  door, 

And  my  presence  like  a  blessing  gilds  with  smiles  the  broad  earth 

o'er  ; 

The  brooks  and  streams  flow  dancing  and  sparkling  in  my  ray, 
And  the  merry,  happy  children  in  the  golden  sunshine  play." 

Then  the  tearful  raindrop  answered — "  Give  praise  where  praise 

is  due, 

The  earth  indeed  were  lonely  without  a  smile  from  you; 
But  without  my  visits,  also,  its  beauty  would  decay, 
The  flowers  droop  and  wither,  and  the  streamlets  dry  away. 

"  T  give  the  flowers  their  freshness,  and  you  their  colours  gay, 

My  jewels  would  not  sparkle,  without  your  sunny  ray. 

Since  each  upon  the  other  so  closely  must  depend, 

Let  us  seek  the  earth  together,  and  our  common  blessings  blend." 

The  raindrops,  and  the  sunbeams,  came  laughing  down  to  earth, 
And  it  woke  once  more  to  beauty,  and  to  myriad  tones  of  mirth; 
The  river  and  the  streamlet  went  dancing  on  their  way, 
And  the  raindrops  brightly  sparkled  in  the  sunbeam's  golden  ray 


74  A   PLEA    FOR    SOFT    WORDS. 

Tho  drooping  flowers  looked  brighter,  there  was  fragrance  in  the 

air. 

The  earth  seemed  new  created,  there  was  gladness  everywhere ; 
And  above  the  dark  clouds,  gleaming  on  the  clear  blue  arcli  cf 

Heaven, 
The  Rainbow  in  its  1  eauty,  like  a  smile  of  love  was  given. 

Twas  a  sweet  and  simple  lesson,  which  the  story  told,  I  thought,, 
N3t  alone  and  single-handed  our  kindliest  deeds  are  wrought ; 
Like  the  sunburn  and  the  raindrop,  work  together,  while  we  may, 
And  the  bow  of  Heaven's  own  promise  shall  smile  upon  our  way. 


A  PLEA  FOR  SOFT  WORDS. 

STRANGE  and  subtle  are  the  influences  which  affect 
the  spirit  and  touch  the  heart.  Are  there  bodiless  crea- 
tures around  us,  moulding  our  thoughts  into  darkness  or 
brightness,  as  they  will  ?  Whence,  otherwise,  come  the 
shadow  and  the  sunshine,  for  which  we  can  discern  no 
mortal  agency  ? 

Oftener,  as  we  grow  older,  come  the  shadows ;  less 
frequently  the  sunshine.  Ere  I  took  up  my  pen,  I  was 
sitting  with  a  pleasant  company  of  friends,  listening  to 
music,  and  speaking,  with  the  rest,  light  words. 

Suddenly,  I  knew  not  why,  my  heart  was  wrapt  away 
in  an  atmosphere  of  sorrow.  A  sense  of  weakness  and 
unworthiness  weighed  me  down,  and  I  felt  the  moisture 
gather  to  my  eyes  and  my  lips  tremble,  though  they  kept 
the  smile. 

All  my  past  Hfe  rose  up  before  me,  and  all  my  short- 


A    PLEA    FOR    SOFT    WORDS.  75 

comings — all  my  mistakes,  and  all  my  wilful  wickedness, 
seemed  pleading  trumpet-tongued  against  me. 

I  saw  her  before  me  whose  feet  trod  with  mine  the 
green  holts  and  meadows,  when  the  childish  thought 
etrayed  not  beyond  the  near  or  the  possible.  I  saw  her 
through  the  long  blue  distances,  clothed  in  the  white 
beauty  of  an  angel ;  but,  alas !  she  drew  her  golden  hair 
across  her  face  to  veil  from  her  vision  the  sin-darkened 
creature  whose  eyes  dropped  heavily  to  the  hem  of  her 
robe ! 

0  pure  and  beautiful  one,  taken  to  peace  ere  the  weak 
temptation  had  lifted  itself  up  beyond  thy  stature,  and 
compelled  thee  to  listen,  to  oppose  thy  weakness  to  it8 
strength,  and  to  fall — sometimes,  at  least,  let  thy  face 
shine  on  me  from  between  the  clouds.  Fresh  from  the 
springs  of  Paradise,  shake  from  thy  wings  the  dew 
against  my  forehead.  We  two  were  coming  up  together 
through  the  sweet  land  of  poesy  and  dreams,  where  the 
senses  believe  what  the  heart  hopes ;  our  hands  were  full 
of  green  boughs,  and  our  laps  of  cowslips  and  violets, 
while  and  purple.  We  were  talking  of  that  more  beau- 
tiful world  into  which  childhood  was  opening  out,  when 
that  spoctre  met  us,  feared  and  dreaded  alike  by  the 
strong  man  and  the  little  child,  and  one  was  taken,  and 
the  other  left. 

One  was  caught  away  sinless  to  the  bosom  of  the  Good 
Shepherd,  and  one  was  left  to  weep  pitiless  tears,  to  eat 
the  bread  of  toil,  and  to  think  the  bitter  thoughts  of 
misery, — left  •'  to  clasp  a  phantom  and  to  find  it  air." 
For  often  has  the  adversary  pressed  me  sore,  and  out  of 
my  armj  b.as  slid  ever  that  which  my  soul  pronounced 


76  A   PLEA   FOR    SOFT    WORDS. 

good :  slid  out  of  my  arms  and  coiled  about  my  feet  like 
a  serpent,  dragging  nie  back  and  holding  me  down  from 
all  that  is  high  and  great. 

Pity  me,  dear  one,  if  thy  sweet  sympathies  can  come 
out  of  the  glory,  if  the  lovelight  of  thy  beautiful  life  can 
press  through  the  cloud  and  the  evil,  and  fold  me  again 
as  a  garment ;  pity  and  plead  for  me  with  the  maiden 
mother  whose  arms  in  human  sorrow  and  human  love 
cradled  our  blessed  Redeemer. 

She  hath  known  our  mortal  pain  and  passion — our 
more  than  mortal  triumph — she  hath  heard  the  "  blessed 
art  thou  among  women."  My  unavailing  prayers,  gold- 
enly  syllabled  by  her  whose  name  sounds  from  the 
manger  through  all  the  world,  may  find  acceptance  with 
Him  who,  though  our  sins  be  as  scarlet,  can  wash  them 
white  as  wool. 

Our  hearts  grew  together  as  one,  and  along  the  head- 
lands and  the  valleys  one  shadow  went  before  us,  and 
one  shadow  followed  us,  till  the  grave  gaped  hungry  and 
terrible,  and  I  was  alone.  Faltering  in  fear,  but  linger- 
ing in  love,  I  knelt  by  the  deathbed — it  was  the  middle 
night,  and  the  first  moans  of  the  autumn  came  down 
from  the  hills,  for  the  frost  specks  glinted  on  her  golden 
robes,  and  the  wind  blew  chill  in  her  bosom.  Heaven 
was  full  of  stars j  and  the  half-moon  scattered  abroad  her 
beauty  like  a  silver  rain.  Many  have  been  the  middle 
nights  since  then,  for  years  lie  between  me  and  that 
fearfulest  of  all  watches ;  but  a  shadow,  a  sound,  or  a 
thought,  turns  the  key  of  the  dim  chamber,  and  the 
scene  is  reproduced. 

J  see  the  long  locks  on  the  pillow,  the  smile  on  thff 


A    PLEA   FOR    SOFT    WORDS.  77 

ashen  lips,  the  thin,  cold  fingers  faintly  pressing  my 
own,  and  hear  the  broken  voice  saying,  "  I  am  going 
now.  I  am  not  afraid.  Why  weep  ye  ?  Though  I 
were  to  live  the  full  time  allotted  to  man,  I  should  not 
he  more  ready,  nor  more  willing  than  now."  But  over 
this  there  comes  a  shudder  and  a  groan  that  all  the 
mirthfulness  of  the  careless  was  impotent  to  drown. 

Three  days  previous  to  the  death-night,  three  days 
previous  to  the  transit  of  the  soul  from  the  clayey 
tabernacle  to  the  house  not  made  with  hands — from 
dishonour  to  glory — let  me  turn  them  over  as  so  many 
leaves. 

The  first  of  the  November  mornings,  but  the  summer 
had  tarried  late,  and  the  wood  to  the  south  of  our  home- 
stead lifted  itself  like  a  painted  wall  against  the  sky — 
the  squirrel  was  leaping  nimbly  and  chattering  gayly 
among  the  fiery  tops  of  the  oaks  or  the  dun  foliage  of 
the  hickory,  that  shot  up  its  shelving  trunk  and  spread 
its  forked  branches  far  over  the  smooth,  moss-spotted 
boles  of  the  beeches,  and  the  limber  boughs  of  the  elms. 
Lithe  and  blithe  he  was,  for  his  harvest  was  come. 

From  the  cracked  beech-burs  was  dropping  the  sweet, 
angular  fruit,  and  down  from  the  hickory  boughs  with 
every  gust  fell  a  shower  of  nuts — shelling  clean  and 
silvery  from  their  thick,  black  hulls. 

Now  and  then,  across  the  stubble-field,  with  long  ears 
erect,  leaped  the  gray  hare,  but  for  the  most  part  he 
kept  close  in  his  burrow,  for  rude  huntsmen  were  on  the 
hills  with  their  dogs,  and  only  when  the  sharp  report  of 
a  rifle  rung  through  the  forest,  or  the  hungry  yelping 
of  some  trailing  hound  startled  his  harmless  slumber, 


78  A   PLEA   FOR    SOFT   WORDS. 

might  you  see  at  the  mouth  of  his  burrow  the  quivering 
lip  and  great  timid  eyes. 

Along  the  margin  of  the  creek,  shrunken  now  away 
from  the  blue  and  gray  and  yellowish  stones  that  made 
its  cool  pavement,  and  projected  in  thick  layers  from  the 
shelving  banks,  the  white  columns  of  gigantic  sycamores 
leaned  earthward,  their  bases  driven,  as  it  seemed,  deep 
into  the  ground — all  their  convolutions  of  roots  buried 
out  of  view.  Dropping  into  the  stagnant  waters  below, 
came  one  by  one  the  broad,  rose-tinted  leaves,  breaking 
the  shadows  of  the  silver  limbs. 

Ruffling  and  widening  to  the  edges  of  the  pools  went 
the  circles,  as  the  pale,  yellow  walnuts  plashed  into  their 
midst ;  for  here,  too,  grew  the  parent  trees,  their  black 
bark  cut  and  jagged  and  broken  into  rough  diamond 
work. 

That  beautiful  season  was  come  when 

"  Rustic  girls  in  hoods 
Go  gleaning  through  the  woods." 

Two  days  after  this,  we  said,  my  dear  mate  and  I,  we 
shall  have  a  holiday,  and  from  sunrise  till  sunset,  with 
our  laps  full  of  ripe  nuts  and  orchard  fruits,  we  shall 
make  pleasant  pastime. 

Rosalie,  for  so  I  may  call  her,  was  older  than  I,  with 
a  face  of  beauty  and  a  spirit  that  never  flagged.  But 
to-day  there  was  heaviness  in  her  eyes,  and  a  flushing 
in  her  cheek  that  was  deeper  than  had  been  there  before. 

Still  she  spoke  gayly,  and  smiled  the  old  smile,  for 
the  gaunt  form  of  sickness  had  never  been  among  ua 


A   PLEA    FOR    SOFT    WORDS.    .  79 

children,  and  we  knew  not  how  his  touch  made  the  head 
flick  and  the  heart  faint. 

The  day  looked  forward  to  so  anxiously  dawned  at 
last ;  but  in  the  dim  chamber  of  Rosalie  the  light  fell 
sad.  I  must  go  alone. 

We  had  always  been  together  before,  at  work  and  in 
play,  asleep  and  awake,  and  I  lingered  long  ere  I  would 
be  persuaded  to  leave  her  ;  but  when  she  smiled  and  said 
tne  fresh-gathered  nuts  and  shining  apples  would  make 
her  glad,  I  wiped  her  forehead,  and  turning  quickly  aAvay 
that  she  might  not  see  my  tears,  was  speedily  wading 
through  winrows  of  dead  leaves. 

The  sensations  of  that  day  I  shall  never  forget ;  a 
vague  and  trembling  fear  of  some  coming  evil,  I  knew 
not  what,  made  me  often  start  as  the  shadows  drifted 
past  me,  or  a  bough  crackled  beneath  my  feet. 

From  the  low,  shrubby  hawthorns,  I  gathered  the 
small  red  apples,  and  from  beneath  the  maples,  picked 
by  their  slim  golden  stems  the  -notched  and  gorgeous 
leaves.  The  wind  fingered  playfully  my  hair,  and  clouds 
of  birds  went  whirring  through  the  tree-tops;  but  no 
sight  nor  sound  could  divide  my  thoughts  from  her  whose 
voice  had  so  often  filled  with  music  these  solitary  places. 

I  remember  when  first  the  fear  distinctly  defined 
itself.  I  was  seated  on  a  mossy  log,  counting  the  trea- 
sures which  I  had  been  gathering,  when  the  clatter  of 
hoof-strokes  on  the  clayey  and  hard-beaten  road  arrested 
rny  attention,  and,  looking  up — for  the  wood  thinned  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  highway,  and  left  it  distinctly  in 

v\c\* — I  saw  Doctor  H ,  the  physician,  in  attendance 

upon  my  sick  companion.     The  visit  was  an  unseasuna- 


80  A   PLEA    FOR   SOFT    WORDS. 

ble  one.  She,  -whom  I  loved  so,  might  never  come  with 
Ee  to  the  woods  any  more. 

Where  the  hill  sloped  to  the  roadside,  and  tho  trees, 
as  I  said,  were  but  few,  was  the  village  graveyard.  No 
friend  of  mine,  no  one  whom  I  had  ever  known  or  loved, 
was  buried  there — yet  with  a  child's  instinctive  dread  of 
death,  I  had  ever  passed  its  shaggy  solitude  (for  shrubs 
and  trees  grew  there  wild  and  unattended)  with  a  hur- 
ried step  and  averted  face. 

Now,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  Avalked  volunta- 
rily thitherward,  and  climbing  on  a  log  by  the  fence- 
side,  gazed  long  and  earnestly  within.  I  stood  beneath 
a  tall  locust-tree,  and  the  small,  round  leaves,  yellow 
now  as  the  long  cloud-bar  across  the  sunset,  kept  drop- 
ping, and  dropping  at  my  feet,  till  all  the  faded  grass 
was  covered  up.  There  the  mattock  had  never  been 
struck ;  but  in  fancy  I  saw  the  small  leaves  falling  and 
drifting  about  a  new  and  smooth-shaped  mound — and, 
choking  with  the  turbulent  outcry  in  my  heart,  I  glided 
stealthily  homeward — alas  !  to  find  the  boding  shape  I 
had  seen  through  mists  and  shadows  awfully  palpable. 
I  did  not  ask  about  Rosalie.  I  was  afraid ;  but  with  my 
rural  gleanings  in  my  lap,  opened  the  door  of  her  qham- 
ber.  The  physician  had  preceded  me  but  a  moment, 
and,  standing  by  the  bedside,  was  turning  toward  the 
lessening  light  the  little  wasted  hand,  the  one  on  which 
I  had  noticed  in  the  morning  a  small  purple  spot.  "  Mor- 
tification !"  he  said,  abruptly,  and  moved  away,  as  though 
His  work  were  done. 

Tlmre  was  a  groan  expressive  of  the  sudden  and  ter- 


A   PLEA    FOR    SOFT    WORDS.  81 

lible  consciousness  which  had  in  it  the  agony  of  agoniea 
— the  giving  up  of  all.  The  gift  I  had  brought  fell  from 
my  relaxed  grasp,  and,  hiding  my  face  in  the  pillow,  I 
gave  way  to  the  passionate  sorrow  of  an  undisciplined 
nature. 

When  at  last  I  looked  up,  there  was  a  smile  on  her 
lips  that  no  faintest  moan  ever  displaced  again. 

A  good  man  and  a  skilful  physician  was  Dr.  H , 

but  his  infirmity  was  a  love  of  strong  drink  ;  and,  there- 
fore, was  it  that  he  softened  not  the  terrible  blow  which 
must  soon  have  fallen.  I  link  with  his  memory  no  re- 
proaches now,  for  all  this  is  away  down  in  the  past ;  and 
"hat  foe  that  sooner  or  later  biteth  like  a  serpent,  soon 
did  his  work ;  but  then  my  breaking  heart  judged  him 
hardly.  Often  yet,  for  in  all  that  is  saddest  memory  is 
faithfulest,  I  wake  suddenly  out  of  sleep,  and  live  over 
that  first  and  bitterest  sorrow  of  my  life ;  and  there  is 
no  house  of  gladness  in  the  world  that  with  a  whisper 
will  not  echo  the  moan  of  lips  pale  with  the  kisses  of 
death. 

Sometimes,  when  life  is  gayest  about  me,  an  unseen 
hand  leads  me  apart,  and  opening  the  door  of  that  stPl 
chamber,  I  go  in — the  yellow  leaves  are  at  my  feec 
agaii,,  and  that  white  hand  between  me  and  the  light. 

I  see  the  blue  flames  quivering  and  curling  close  about 
the  smouldering  embers  on  the  hearth.  I  hear  soft  foot- 
steps and  sobbing  voices,  and  see  the  clasped  hands  and 
placid  smile  cf  her  who,  alone  among  us  all,  was  un- 
troubled ;  and  over  the  darkness  and  the  pain  I  hear  a 
voice,  saying,  "  She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth."  Would,, 
dear  reader,  that  you  might  remember,  and  T,  tw,  al 
6 


82  MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS 

ways,  the  importance  of  soft  and  careful  words.  One 
harsh  or  even  thoughtlessly  chosen  epithet,  may  bear 
with  it  a  weight  which  shall  weigh  down  some  heart 
through  a.l  life.  There  are  for  us  all  nights  of  sorrow, 
in  which  we  feel  their  value.  Help  us,  our  Father,  to 
remember  it ! 


MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS. 

"  HE  is  a  good  man,  I  suppose,  and  an  excellent  doc 
tor,"  said  Mrs.  Salina  Simmons,  with  a  dubious  shake 
of  her  head;  "but " 

"But  what,  Mrs.  Simmons?" 

"  They  say  he  drinks  !" 

"No,  impossible!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Josiah  Query, .with 
emphasis. 

"  Impossible?  I  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Simmons.  "And 
mind  you,  I  don't  say  he  drinks,  but  that  such  is  the 
report.  And  I  have  it  upon  tolerably  good  authority, 
too,  Mr.  Query." 

"What  authority?" 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  tell  that :  for  you  know  I  never  like 
to  make  mischief.  I  can  only  say  that  the  report  is— • 
he  drinks." 

Mr.  Josiah  Query  scratched  his  head. 

"Can  it  be  that  Dr.  Harvey  drinks?"  he  murmured. 
<(  I  thought  him  a  pure  Son  of  Temperance.  And  he  ia 
iny  family  physician,  too  !  I  must  look  into  this  matter 


MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS.  83 

forthwith.     Mrs.  Simmt.ns,  you  still  decline  stating  who 
is  your  authority  for  this  report  ?" 

Mrs.  Simmons  was  firm  ;  her  companion  could  gain 
no  satisfaction.  She  soon  compelled  him  to  promise  that 
he  would  not  mention  her  name,  if  he  spoke  of  the  affair 
elsewhere,  repeating  her  remark  that  she  never  liked  to 
make  mischief. 

Dr.  Harvey  was  a  physician  residing  in  a  small  vil- 
lage, where  he  shared  the  profits  of  practice  with  another 
doctor,  named  Jones.  Dr.  Harvey  was  generally  liked, 
and  among  his  friends  was  Mr.  Josiah  Query,  whom 
Mrs.  Simmons  shocked  with  the  bit  of  gossip  respecting 
the  doctor's  habits  of  intemperance.  Mr.  Query  was  a 
good-hearted  man,  and  he  deemed  it  his  duty  to  inquire 
into  the  nature  of  the  report,  and  learn  if  it  had  any 
foundation  in  truth.  Accordingly,  he  went  to  Mr. 
Green,  who  also  employed  the  doctor  in  his  family. 

"Mr.  Green,"  said  he,  "have  you  heard  anything 
about  this  report  of  Dr.  Harvey's  intemperance  ?" 

"Dr.  Harvey's  intemperance?"  cried  Mr.  Green,  as 
tonished. 

"  Yes — a  flying  report." 

"No,  I'm  sure  I  hav'n't!" 

"  Of  course,  then,  you  don't  know  whether  it  is  truo 
or  not  ?" 

"  What  ?" 

"  That  he  drinks." 

"  I  never  heard  of  it  before.  Dr.  Harvey  is  my  family 
physician,  and  I  certainly  would  not  employ  a  man  ad- 
dicted to  the  use  of  ardent  spirits." 

"  Nor  I,'    «uid  Mr.  Query  ;  "  and  for  this  reason,  and 


84  MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS. 

for  the  doctor's  sake  too,  I  want  to  know  the  truth  of 
the  matter.  I  don't  roally  credit  it  myself;  but  I  thought 
it  would  do  no  harm  to  inquire." 

Mr.  Query  next  applied  to  Squire  Worthy  for  infor- 
mation. 

"  Dear  me  !"  exclaimed  the  squire,  who  was  a  nervous 
man;  "does  Dr.  Harvey  drink?" 

"  Such  is  the  rumour ;  how  true  it  is,  I  can't  say." 

"  And  what  if  he  should  give  one  of  my  family  a  dose 
of  arsenic  instead  of  the  tincture  of  rhubarb,  some  time, 
when  he  is  intoxicated  ?  My  mind  is  made  up  now.  I 
shall  send  for  Dr.  Jones  in  future." 

"But,  dear  sir,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Query.  "I  don't 
say  the  report  is  true." 

"  Oh,  no ;  you  wouldn't  wish  to  commit  yourself.  You 
like  to  know  the  safe  side,  and  so  do  I.  I  shall  employ 
Dr.  Jones." 

Mr.  Query  turned  sorrowfully  away. 

"  Squire  Worthy  must  have  had  suspicions  of  the 
doctor's  intemperance  before  I  came  to  him,"  thought  he; 
;'  I  really  begin  to  fear  that  there  is  some  foundation  for 
the  report.  I'll  go  to  Mrs.  Mason ;  she  will  know." 

Mr.  Query  found  Mrs.  Mason  ready  to  listen  to  an-1 
boiieve  any  scandal.  She  gave  her  head  a  significant 
toss,  as  if  she  knew  more  about  the  report  than  she 
chose  to  confess. 

Mr.  Query  begged  of  her  to  explain  herself. 

"  Oh,  /sha'n't  say  anything,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mason  ; 
*'  I've  no  ill  will  against  Dr.  Harvey,  and  I'd  rather  cui 
off  rny  right  hand  than  injure  him." 

"  But  is  the  report  true  ?" 


MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS.  8& 

"  True,  Mr.  Query  ?  Do  you  suppose  /  ever  saw  Dr. 
Harvey  drunk  ?  Then  how  can  you  expect  me  to  know  ? 
Oh,  I  don't  wish  to  say  anything  against  the  man,  and 
1  won't." 

After  visiting  Mrs.  Mason,  Mr.  Query  went  to  half  a 
dozen  others  to  learn  the  truth  respecting  Dr.  Harvey's 
habits.  Nobody  would  confess  that  they  knew  anything 
about  his  drinking;  but  Mr.  Smith  "was  not  as  much 
surprised  as  others  might  be;"  Mr.  Brown  "was  sorry 
if  the  report 'was  true,"  adding,  that  the  best  of  men 
had  their  faults.  Miss  Single  had  frequently  remarked 
the  doctor's  florid  complexion,  and  wondered  if  his  colour 
was  natural ;  Mr.  Clark  remembered  that  the  doctor 
appeared  unusually  gay,  on  the  occasion  of  his  last  visit 
to  his  family ;  Mrs.  Rogers  declared  that,  when  she 
came  to  reflect,  she  believed  she  had  once  or  twice  smelt 
the  man's  breath  ;  and  Mr.  Impulse  had  often  seen  him 
riding  at  an  extraordinary  rate  for  a  sober  gentleman. 
Still  Mr.  Query  was  unable  to  ascertain  any  definite 
facts  respecting  the  unfavourable  report. 

Meanwhile,  with  his  usual  industry,  Dr.  Harvey  went 
about  his  business,  little  suspecting  the  scandalous  gossip 
that  was  circulating  to  his  discredit.  But  he  soon  per- 
ceived he  was  very  coldly  received  by  some  of  his  old 
friends,  and  that  others  employed  Dr.  Jones.  Nobody 
sent  for  him,  and  he  might  have  begun  to  think  that  the 
health  of  the  town  was  entirely  re-established,  had  he 
not  observed  that  his  rival  appeared  driven  with  business, 
and  that  he  rode  night  and  day. 

One  evening  Dr.  Harvey  sat  in  his  office,  wondering 
what  could  have  occasioned  the  sudden  and  surprising 


86  MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS. 

change  in  his  affairs,  when,  contrary  to  his  expectations,  ha 
received  a  call  to  visit  a  sick  child  of  one  of  his  old  friends, 
who  had  lately  employed  his  rival.  After  some  hesita- 
tion, and  a  struggle  between  pride  and  a  sense  of  duty, 
he  resolved  to  respond  to  the  call,  and  at  the  same  time 
learn,  if  possible,  why  he  had  been  preferred  to  Dr. 
Jones,  and  why  Dr.  Jones  had  on  other  occasions  been 
preferred  to  him. 

"  The  truth  is,  Dr.  Harvey,"  said  Mr.  Miles,  "  we 
thought  the  child  dangerously  ill,  and  as  Dr.  Jones 
could  not  come  immediately,  we  concluded  to  send  for 
you." 

"  I  admire  your  frankness,"  responded  Dr.  Harvey, 
smiling ;  "  and  shall  admire  it  still  more,  if  you  Avill 
inform  me  why  you  have  lately  preferred  Dr.  Jones  to 
me.  Formerly  I  had  the  honour  of  enjoying  your 
friendship  and  esteem,  and  you  have  frequently  told  me 
yourself,  that  you  would  trust  no  other  physician." 

"Well,"  replied  Mr.  Miles,  "I  am  a  plain  man,  and 
never  hesitate  to  tell  people  what  they  wish  to  know.  I 
sent  for  Dr.  Jones  instead  of  you,  I  confess — not  that  I 
doubted  your  skill — " 

"  What  then  ?" 

"  It  is  a  delicate  subject,  but  I  will,  nevertheless, 
speak  out.  Although  I  had  the  utmost  confidence  in 
your  skill  and  faithfulness — I — you  know,  I — in  short,  1 
don't  like  to  trust  a  physician  who  drinks." 

"  Sir  !"  cried  the  astonished  doctor. 

"Yes — drinks,"  pursued  Mr.  Miles.  "It  is  plain 
language,  but  I  am  a  plain  man.  I  heard  of  your 


MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS.  87 

intemperance,  and  thought  it  unsafe — that  is,  danger- 
ous— to  employ  you." 

"  My  intemperance  !"  ejaculated  Dr.  Harvey. 

"  Yes,  sir !  and  I  am  sorry  to  know  it.  But  the  fact 
that  you  sometimes  drink  a  trifle  too  much  is  now  a  well 
known  fact,  and  is  generally  talked  of  in  the  village." 

"Mr.  Miles,"  cried  the  indignant  doctor,  "this  is 
scandalous — it  is  false  !  Who  is  your  authority  for  this 
report  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  heard  it  from  several  mouths,  but  I  can't 
say  exactly  who  is  responsible  for  the  rumour." 

And  Mr.  Miles  went  on  to  mention  several  names,  as 
connected  with  the  rumour,  arid  among  which  was  that 
of  Mr.  Query. 

The  indignant  doctor  immediately  set  out  on  a  pil- 
grimage of  investigation,  going  from  one  house  to  an- 
Dther,  in  search  of  the  author  of  the  scandal. 

Nobodyv  however,  could  state  where  it  originated,  but 
it  was  universally  admitted  that  the  man  from  whose  lips 
it  was  first  heard,  was  Mr.  Query. 

Accordingly  Dr.  Harvey  hastened  to  Mr.  Query's 
house,  and  demanded  of  that  gentleman  what  he  meant 
by  circulating  such  scandal. 

"  My  dear  doctor,"  cried  Mr.  Query,  his  face  beam- 
ing with  conscious  innocence,  "/  haven't  been  guilty 
of  any  mis-statement  about  you,  I  can  take  my  oath.  I 
heard  that  there  was  a  report  of  your  drinking,  and  all 
I  did  was  to  tell  people  I  didn't  believe  it,  nor  know  any- 
thing about  it,  and  to  inquire  where  it  originated.  Oh, 
I  assure  you,  doctor,  I  haven't  slandered  you  in  any 
manner." 


88  MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS. 

"You  are  a  poor  fool !"  exclaimed  Dr.  Harvey,  per- 
plexed and  angry.  "  If  you  had  gone  about  town  tell- 
ing everybody  that  you  saw  me  drunk,  daily,  you 
couldn't  have  slandered  me  more  effectually  than  you 
have." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  cried  Mr.  Query,  very  sad; 
"but  I  thought  I  was  doing  you  a  service !" 

"  Save  me  from  my  friends !"  exclaimed  the  doctor, 
bitterly.  "  An  enemy  could  not  have  done  me  as  much 
injury  as  you  have  done.  But  I  now  insist  on  knowing 
who  first  mentioned  the  report  to  you." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say  that." 

"  Then  I  shall  hold  you  responsible  for  the  scandal — 
for  the  base  lies  you  have  circulated.  But  if  you  are 
really  an  honest  man,  and  my  friend,  you  will  not  hesi- 
tate to  tell  me  where  this  report  originated." 

After  some  reflection,  Mr.  Query,  who  stood  in  mor- 
tal fear  of  the  indignant  doctor,  resolved  to  reveal  the 
secret,  and  mentioned  the  name  of  his  informant,  Mrs. 
Simmons.  As  Dr.  Harvey  had  not  heard  her  spoken 
of  before,  as  connected  with  the  report  of  his  intempe- 
rance, he  knew  very  well  that  Mr.  Query's  "  friendly 
investigations"  had  been  the  sole  cause  of  his  loss  of 
practice.  However,  to  go  to  the  roots  of  this  Upas  tree 
of  scandal,  he  resolved  to  pay  an  immediate  visit  to  Mrs. 
Simmons. 

This  lady  could  deny  nothing ;  but  she  declared  that 
she  had  not  given  the  rumour  as  a  fact,  and  that  she  had 
never  spoken  of  it  except  to  Mr.  Query.  Anxious  to 
throw  the  responsibility  of  the  slander  upon  others,  she 
eagerly  confessed  that,  on  a  certain  occasion  upo»  tmter- 


MR.  QUERY'S  INVESTIGATIONS.  89 

ing  a  room  in  which  were  Mrs  Guild  and  Mrs.  Harm- 
less, she  overheard  one  >f  these  ladies  remark  that  "  Dr. 
Harvey  drank  more  than  ever,"  and  the  other  reply, 
that  "  she  had  heard  him  say  he  could  not  break  himself, 
although  he  knew  his  health  suffered  in  consequence." 

Thus  set  upon  the  right  track,  Dr.  Harvey  visited 
Mrs.  Guild  and  Mrs.  Harmless  without  delay. 

"  Mercy  on  us  !"  exclaimed  those  ladies,  when  ques- 
tioned respecting  the  matter,  "  we  perfectly  remember 
talking  about  your  drinking  coffee,  and  making  such 
remarks  as  you  have  heard  through  Mrs.  Simmons. 
But  with  regard  to  your  drinking  liquor,  we  never 
heard  the  report  until  a  week  ago,  and  never  believed  it 
at  all." 

As  what  these  ladies  had  said  of  his  coffee-drinking 
propensities  was  perfectly  true,  Dr.  Harvey  readily 
acquitted  them  of  any  designs  against  his  character  for 
sobriety,  and  well  satisfied  with  having  at  last  disco- 
vered the  origin  of  the  rumour,  returned  to  the  friendly 
Mr.  Query. 

The  humiliation  of  this  gentleman  was  so  deep,  that 
Dr.  Harvey  avoided  reproaches,  and  confined  himself  to 
a  simple  narrative  of  his  discoveries. 

"  I  see,  it  is  all  my  fault,"  said  Mr.  Query.  "  And  I 
will  do  anything  to  remedy  it.  I  never  could  believe 
you  drank — and  now  I'll  go  and  tell  everybody  that  the 
report  was  false." 

"  Oh  !  bless  you,"  cried  the  doctor,  "I  wouldn't  nave 
you  do  so  for  the  world.  All  I  ask  of  you,  is  to  say 
nothing  whatever  on  the  subject,  and  if  you  ever  again 


90  ROOM    IN    THE    WORLD. 

hear  a  report  of  the  kind,  don't  make  it  a  subject  of 
friendly  investigation." 

Mr.  Query  promised ;  and,  after  the  truth  was  known, 
and  Dr.  Harvey  had  regained  the  good-will  of  the  com- 
munity, together  with  his  share  of  medical  practice,  he 
Dover  had  reason  again  to  exclaim — "  Save  me  from  my 
friends !  '  And  Mr.  Query  was  in  future  exceedingly 
careful  ll  ow  he  attempted  to  make  friendly  investiga- 
tions. 


ROOM  IN  THE  WORLD. 

THERE  is  room  in  the  world  for  the  wealthy  and  great, 
For  princes  to  reign  in  magnificent  state ; 
For  the  courtier  to  bend,  for  the  noble  to  sue, 
If  the  hearts  of  all  these  are  but  honest  and  true. 

And  there's  room  in  the  world  for  the  lowly  and  meek, 
For  the  hard  horny  hand,  and  the  toil-furrow'd  cheek ; 
For  the  scholar  to  think,  for  the  merchant  to  trade, 
So  these  are  found  upright  and  just  in  their  grade. 

But  room  there  is  none  for  the  wicked  ;  and  nought 
For  the  souls  that  with  teeming  corruption  are  fraught. 
The  world  would  be  small,  were  its  oceans  all  land, 
To  harbour  and  feed  such  a  pestilent  band. 

Root  out  from  among  ye,  by  teaching  the  mind, 
By  training  the  heart,  this  chief  curse  of  mankind  I 
'Tis  a  duty  you  owe  to  the  forthcoming  race — 
Confess  it  in  time,  and  discharge  it  with  grace  1 


WORDS. 

<{THE  foolish  thing  !"  said  my  Aunt  Rachel,  speaking 
•warmly,  "  to  get  hurt  at  a  mere  word.  It's  a  little  hard 
that  people  can't  open  their  lips  but  somebody  is 
offended." 

"Words  are  things!"  said  I,  smiling. 

"  Very  light  things  !  A  person  must  be  tender  indeed, 
that  is  hurt  by  a  word." 

"  The  very  lightest  thing  may  hurt,  if  it  falls  on  a 
tender  place." 

"  I  don't  like  people  who  have  these  tender  places," 
said  Aunt  Rachel.  "  I  never  get  hurt  at  what  is  said  to 
me.  No — never !  To  be  ever  picking  and  mincing, 
and  chopping  off  your  words — to  be  afraid  to  say  this 
or  that — for  fear  somebody  will  be  offended  !  I  can't 
abide  it." 

"  People  who  have  these  tender  places  can't  help  it,  I 
suppose.  This  being  so,  ought  we  not  to  regard  their 
weakness?"  said  I.  "Pain,  either  of  body  or  mind,  is 
hard  to  bear,  and  we  should  not  inflict  it  causelessly." 

"  People  who  are  so  wonderfully  sensitive,"  replied 
Aunt  Rachel,  growing  warmer, "  ought  to  shut  themselves 
up  at  home,  and  not  come  among  sensible,  good-tempered 
persons.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  can  tell  them, 
one  and  all,  that  I  am  not  going  to  pick  out  every  hard 
word  from  a  sentence  as  carefully  as  I  would  seeds  from 
a  raisin.  Let  them  crack  them  with  their  teeth,  if  thej 
arc  afraid  to  swallow  them  whole." 


92  KORDS. 

Now,  for  all  that  Aunt  Rachel  went  on  after  this 
strain,  ahe  was  a  kind,  good  soul,  in  the  main,  and,  1 
could  see,  was  sorry  for  having  hurt  the  feelings  of  Mary 
Lane.  But  she  didn't  like  to  acknowledge  that  she  was 
in  the  wrong ;  that  would  detract  too  much  from  th^  self- 
complacency  with  which  she  regarded  herself.  .Kr.ovinj> 
her  character  very  well,  I  thought  it  best  not  to  coni!>j<ic 
the  little  argument  about  the  importance  of  words,  ;u,d 
so  changed  the  subject.  But,  every  now  and  then,  Aunt 
Rachel  would  return  to  it,  each  time  softening  a  little 
towards  Mary.  At  last  she  said, 

"I'm  sure  it  was  a  little  thing.  A  very  little  thing. 
She  might  have  known  that  nothing  unkind  was  intended 
on  my  part." 

"  There  are  some  subjects,  aunt,"  I  replied,  "  to  which 
we  cannot  bear  the  slightest  allusion.  And  a  sudden 
reference  to  them  is  very  apt  to  throw  us  off  of  our 
guard.  What  you  said  to  Mary  has,  in  all  probability, 
touched  some  weakness  of  character,  or  probed  some 
wound  that  time  has  not  been  able  to  heal.  I  have 
always  thought  her  a  sensible,  good-natured  girl." 

"  And  so  have  I.  But  I  really  cannot  think  that  she 
has  showed  her  good  sense  or  good  nature  in  the  present 
case.  It  is  a  very  bad  failing  this,  of  being  over  sensi- 
tive; and  exceedingly  annoying  to  one's  friends." 

"  It  is,  I  know ;  but  still,  all  of  us  have  a  weak  point, 
and  to  her  that  is  assailed,  we  are  very  apt  to  betray 
our  feelings." 

"Well,  I  say  now,  as  I  have  always  said — I  don't 
like  to  have  anything  to  do  with  people  who  have  these 
weak  points.  This  being  hurt  by  a  word,  as  if 


WORDS.  93 

were  blows,  is  something  that  does  not  come  within  the 
rarge  of  my  sympathies." 

"And  yet,  aunt,"  said  I,  "all  have  weak  points. 
Even  you  are  not  entirely  free  from  them." 

"Me!"  Aunt  Rachel  bridled. 

"  Yes ;  and  if  even  as  light  a  thing  as  a  word  were  to 
fall  upon  them,  you  would  suffer  pain." 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Aunt  Rachel,  with  much  dignity  of 
manner;  she  was  chafed  by  my  words,  light  as  they 
were  ;  "  inform  me  where  these  weaknesses,  of  which  you 
are  pleased  to  speak,  lie." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  you  must  excuse  me.  That  would  be  very 
much  out  of  place.  But  I  only  stated  a  general  fact 
that  appertains  to  all  of  us." 

Aunt  Rachel  looked  very  grave.  I  had  laid  the  weight 
of  words  upon  a  weakness  of  her  character,  and  it  had 
given  her  pain.  That  weakness  was  a  peculiarly  good 
opinion  of  herself.  I  had  made  no  allegation  against 
her ;  and  there  was  none  in  my  mind.  My  words  simply 
expressed  the  general  truth  that  we  all  have  weaknesses, 
and  'ncluded  her  in  their  application.  But  she  imagined 
that  I  referred  to  some  particular  defect  or  fault,  and 
mail-proof  as  she  was  against  words,  they  had  wounded 
her. 

For  a  day  or  two  Aunt  Rachel  remained  more  sobei* 
than  was  her  wont.  I  knew  the  cause,  but  did  nos 
attempt  to  remove  from  her  mind  any  impression  my 
words  had  made.  One  day,  about  a  week  after,  I  said 
to  her, 

"Aunt  Rachel,  I  saw  Mary  Lane's  mother  this  merg- 
ing." 


84-  WORDSU 

'  Ah?"     The  old  lady  looked  up  at  me  inquiringly.    . 

"I  don't  wonder  your  words  hurt  the  poor  girl,"  I 
tided. 

"Why?  What  did  I  say?"  quickly  asked  Aunt 
Rachel. 

"  You  said  that  she  was  a  jilt." 

"  But  I  was  only  in  jest,  and  she  knew  it.  I  did  not 
really  mean  anything.  I'm  surprised  that  Mary  should 
be  so  foolish." 

"You  will  not  be  surprised  when  you  know  all,"  was 
mv  answer. 

V 

"  All  ?  What  all  ?  I'm  sure  I  wasn't  in  earnest.  I 
didn't  mean  to  hurt  the  poor  girl's  feelings."  My  aunt 
looked  very  much  troubled. 

"No  one  blames  you,  Aunt  Rachel,"  said  I.  "  Mary 
knows  you  didn't  intend  wounding  her." 

"  But  why  should  she  take  a  little  word  so  much  to 
heart  ?  It  must  have  had  more  truth  in  it  than  I  sup- 
posed." 

"  Did  you  know  that  Mary  refused  an  offer  of  marriage 
from  Walter  Green  last  week  ?" 

<;  Why  no  !  It  can't  be  possible !  Refused  Walter 
fJreen?" 

"Yes." 

"  They've  been  intimate  for  a  long  time." 

"  I  know." 

"  She  certainly  encouraged  him." 

"  I  think  it  more  than  probable." 

"  Is  it  possible,  then,  that  she  did  really  jilt  the  yoo.  g 
man  ?"  exclaimed  Aunt  Rachel. 

"  This  has  been  said  of  her,"  I  replied.  "  But  so  fal 
is  I  can  learn,  she  was  really  attached  to  him,  and  suf- 


WORDS.  95 

ferred  great  pain  in  rejecting  his  offer.  Wisely  she 
rsgarded  marriage  as  the  most  important  event  of  her 
life,  and  refused  to  make  so  solemn  a  contract  with  one 
in  whose  principles  she  had  not  the  fullest  confidence. " 

"  But  she  ought  not  to  have  encouraged  Walter,  it 
ghe  did  not  intend  marrying  him,"  said  Aunt  Rachel, 
with  some  warmth. 

"  She  encouraged  him  so  long  as  she  thought  well  of 
him.  A  closer  view  revealed  points  of  character  hidder. 
by  distance.  When  she  saw  these  her  feelings  were  al- 
ready deeply  involved.  But,  like  a  true  woman,  she 
turned  from  the  proffered  hand,  even  though  while  in 
doing  so  her  heart  palpitated  with  pain.  There  is  no- 
thing false  about  Mary  Lane.  She  could  no  more  trifle 
with  a  lover  than  she  could  commit  a  crime.  Think,  then, 
how  almost  impossible  it  would  be  for  her  to  hear  herself 
called,  under  existing  circumstances,  even  in  sport,  a  jilt, 
without  being  hurt.  Words  sometimes  have  pOAver  to 
hurt  more  than  blows.  Do  you  not  see  this,  now,  Aunt 
Rachel  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes.  I  see  it;  and  I  saw  it  before,"  said 
the  old  lady.  "  And  in  future  I  will  be  more  careful  of 
my  words.  It  is  pretty  late  in  life  to  learn  this  lesson — 
but  we  are  never  too  late  to  learn.  Poor  Mary  !  It  grieves 
me  to  think  that  I  should  have  hurt  her  so  much." 

Yes,  words  often  have  in  them  a  smarting  force,  and 
we  cannot  be  too  guarded  how  we  use  them.  "Think 
twice  before  you  speak  once,"  is  a  trite  but  wise  saying. 
We  teach  it  to  our  children  very  carefully,  but  are 
too  apt  to  forget  that  it  has  not  lost  its  application  to 
1  ourselves. 


THE  THANKLESS  OFFICE. 

»*  AN  object  of  real  charity,"  said  Andrew  Lyon  to 
Its  wife,  as  a  poor  woman  withdrew  from  the  room  in 
which  they  were  seated. 

"  If  ever  there  was  a  worthy  object  she  is  one,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Lyon.  "  A  widow,  with  health  so  feeble 
that  even  ordinary  exertion  is  too  much  for  her;  yet 
obliged  to  support,  with  the  labour  of  her  own  hands, 
not  only  herself,  but  three  young  children.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  she  is  behind  with  her  rent." 

"  Nor  I."  said  Mr.  Lyon,  in  a  voice  of  sympathy. 
"  How  much,  did  she  say,  was  due  to  her  landlord  ?" 

"  Ten  dollars." 

"  She  will  not  be  able  to  pay  it." 

"  I  fear  not.  How  can  she  ?  I  give  her  all  my  extra 
sewing,  and  have  obtained  work  for  her  from  several 
ladies ;  but  with  her  best  efforts  she  can  barely  obtain 
food  and  decent  clothing  for  herself  and  babes." 

"  Does  it  not  seem  hard,"  remarked  Mr.  Lyon,  "that 
one  like  Mrs.  Arnold,  who  is  so  earnest  in  her  efforts  to 
take  care  of  herself  and  family,  should  not  receive  a 
helping  hand  from  some  one  of  the  many  Avho  could  he?p 
1  er  without  feeling  the  effort  ?  If  I  didn't  find  it  so  hard 
to  make  both  ends  meet,  I  would  pay  off  her  arrears  of 
rent  for  her,  and  feel  happy  in  so  doing." 

•'Ah  !"  exclaimed  the  kind-hearted  wife,  "  how  much 
I  wish  that  we  were  able  to  do  this !  But  we  are  not." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  we  can  do,"  said  Mr.  Lyon,  in  a 


THE  THANKLESS   OFFICE.  97 

cheerful  voice;  "or  rather  what  Jean  do.  .  It  will  be  a 
very  light  matter  for  sny  ten  persons  to  give  a  dollar 
apiece,  in  order  to  relieve  Mrs.  Arnold  from  her  pre- 
sent trouble.  There  are  plenty  who  would  cheerfully 
contribute  for  this  good  purpose ;  all  that  is  wanted  is 
some  one  to  take  upon  himself  the  business  of  making 
the  collections.  That  task  shall  be  mine." 

"  How  glad  I  am,  James,  to  hear  you  say  so !"  smilingly 
replied  Mrs.  Lyon.  Oh,  what  a  relief  it  will  be  to  poor 
Mrs.  Arnold  !  It  will  make  her  heart  as  light  as  a 
feather.  That  rent  has  troubled  her  sadly.  Old  Links, 
her  landlord,  has  been  worrying  her  about  it  a  good  deal, 
and,  only  a  week  ago,  threatened  to  put  her  things  in 
the  street,  if  she  didn't  pay  up." 

"  I  should  have  thought  of  this  before,"  remarked 
Andrew  Lyon.  "  There  are  hundreds  of  people  who  are 
willing  enough  to  give  if  they  were  only  certain  in  re- 
gard to  the  object.  Here  is  one  worthy  enough  in  every 
way.  Be  it  my  business  to  present  her  claims  to  bene- 
volent consideration.  Let  me  see.  To  whom  shall  I 
go  ?  There  are  Jones,  and  Green,  and  Tompkins.  I 
can  get  a  dollar  from  each  of  them.  That  will  be  three 
dollars, — and  one  from  myself,  will  make  four.  Who 
else  is  there  ?  Oh-  Malcolm  !  I'm  sure  of  a  dollar  from 
him  ;  and  also  from  Smith,  Todd,  and  Perry." 

Confident  in  the  success  of  his  benevolent  scheme,  Mr. 
Lyon  started  forth,  early  on  the  very  next  day,  for  the 
purpose  of  obtaining,  by  subscription,  the  poor  widow's 
v?nt.  The  first  person  he  called  on  was  Malcolm. 

"Ah,  friend  Lyon!"  said  Malcolm,  smiling  blandij. 
1  Good  morning !    What  can  I  do  for  you,  to-day  ?" 
7 


98  THE   THANKLESS    OFFICE. 

"Nothing  for  me,  but  something  for  a  poor  widow, 
who  is  behind  with  her  rent,"  replied  Andrew  Lyon. 
"  I  vrant  just  one  dollar  from  you,  and  as  much  more 
from  some  eight  or  nine  as  benevolent  as  yourself." 

At  the  word  poor  widow  the  countenance  of  Malcolm 
fell,  and  when  his  visiter  ceased,  he  replied,  in  a  changed 
and  husky  voice,  clearing  his  throat  two  or  three  times 
as  he  spoke. 

"Are  you  sure  she  is  deserving,  Mr.  Lyon?"  Tlie 
man's  manner  had  become  exceedingly  grave. 

"  None  more  so,"  was  the  prompt  answer.  "  She  is 
in  poor  health,  and  has  three  children  to  support  with 
the  product  of  her  needle.  If  any  one  needs  assistance, 
it  is  Mrs.  Arnold." 

"  Oh !  Ah  !    The  widow  of  Jacob  Arnold  ?" 

"  The  same,"  replied  Andrew  Lyon. 

Malcolm's  face  did  not  brighten  with  a  feeling  of 
heart-warm  benevolence.  But  he  turned  slowly  away, 
and  opening  his  money-drawer,  very  slowly  toyed  with 
his  fingers  amid  its  contents.  At  length  he  took  there- 
from a  dollar  bill,  and  said,  as  he  presented  it  to  Lyon, 
— sighing  involuntarily  as  he  did"  so, — 

"  I  suppose  I  must  do  my  part.  But  we  are  called 
upon  so  often." 

The  ardour  of  Andrew  Lyor's  benevolent  feeling? 
suddenly  cooled  at  this  unexpected  reception.  He  had 
entered  upon  his  work  under  the  glow  of  a  pure  enthu- 
siasm ;  anticipating  a  hearty  response  the  moment  his 
errand  was  made  known. 

"  I  thank  you  in  the  widow's  name,"  said  he,  as  ho 
took  the  dollar.  When  he  turned  from  Mr.  Malcolm's 


THE    THANKLESS    OFFICE.  9S 

store,  it  was  with  a  pressure  on  his  feelings,  as  if  he  had 
asked  the  coldly-given  favour  for  himself. 

It  was  not  without  an  effort  that  Lyon  compelled  him- 
self to  call  upon  Mr.  Green,  considered  the  "  next  best 
man"  on  his  list.  But  he  entered  his  place  of  business 
with  far  less  confidence  than  he  had  felt  when  calling 
upon  Malcolm.  His  story  told,  Green,  without  a  word 
or  smile,  drew  two  half  dollars  from  his  pocket,  and  pre- 
sented them. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Lyon. 

"  Welcome,"  returned  Green. 

Oppressed  with  a  feeling  of  embarrassment,  Lyon 
stood  for  a  few  moments.  Then  bowing,  he  said, 

"Good  morning." 

"Good  morning,"  was  coldly  and  formally  responded. 

And  thus  the  alms-seeker  and  alms-giver  parted. 

"  Better  be  at  his  shop,  attending  to  his  work,"  mut- 
tered Green  to  himself,  as  his  visiter  retired.  "  Men 
ain't  very  apt  to  get  along  too  well  in  the  world  who 
spend  their  time  in  begging  for  every  object  of  charity 
that  happens  to  turn  up.  And  there  are  plenty  of  such, 
dear  knows.  He's  got  a  dollar  out  of  me ;  may  it  do 
bin,  or  the  poor  widow  he  talked  so  glibly  about,  much 
good." 

Cold  water  had  been  poured  upon  the  feelings  of 
Andrew  Lyon.  He  had  raised  two  dollars  for  the  poor 
wirlow,  but,  at  what  a  sacrifice  for  one  so  sensitive  as 
himself:  Instead  of  keeping  on  in  his  work  of  benevo- 
lence, he  went  to  his  shop,  and  entered  upon  the  day'd 
einpk yment.  How  disappointed  he  felt; — and  this  dis- 


300  THE   THANKLESS   OFFICE. 

app(  intmcnt  was  mingled  with  a  certain  sense  of  humilia 
tioti.  as  if  he  had  been  asking  alms  for  himself. 

'"Catch  me  at  this  work  again  !"  he  said  half  aloud, 
ts  his  thoughts  dwelt  upon  what  had  so  recently  oc- 
curred. "  Lut  this  is  not  right,"  he  added,  quickly. 
"  It  is  a  weakness  in  me  to  feel  so.  Poor  Mrs.  Arnold 
must  be  relieved ;  and  it  is  my  duty  to  see  that  she  gets 
relief.  I  had  no  thought  of  a  reception  like  this.  Peo- 
ple can  talk  of  benevolence;  but  putting  the  hand  in 
the  pocket  is  another  affair  altogether.  I  never  dreamed 
that  such  men  as  Malcolm  and  Green  could  be  insensible 
to  an  appeal  like  the  one  I  made." 

"  I've  got  two  dollars  towards  paying  Mrs.  Arnold's 
rent,"  he  said  to  himself,  in  a  more  cheerful  tone,  some 
time  afterwards ;  "  and  it  will  go  hard  if  I  don't  raise 
the  whole  amount  for  her.  All  are  not  like  Green  and 
Malcolm.  Jones  is  a  kind-hearted  man,  and  will  in- 
stantly respond  to  the  call  of  humanity.  I'll  go  and 
see  him." 

So,  off  Andrew  Lyon  started  to  see  this  individual. 

"I've  come  begging,  Mr.  Jones,"  said  he,  «n  meeting 
him.  And  he  spoke  in  a  frank,  pleasant  manner. 

"  Then  you've  come  to  the  wrong  shop ;  that's  all  I 
have  to  say,"  was  the  blunt  answer. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Mr.  Jones.     Hear  my  story  first." 

"  I  do  say  it,  and  I'm  in  earnest,"  returned  Jones. 
**  I  feel  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey  to-day." 

"  I  only  want  a  dollar  to  help  a  poor  widow  pay  her 
rent,"  said  Lyon. 

<;  Oh,  hang  all  the  poor  widows  !  If  that's  your  game, 
/ou'll  get  nothing  here.  I've  got  my  hands  full  to  pay 


THE    THANKLESS    OFFICE.  10J 

my  own  rent.  A  nice  time  I'd  have  in  handing  out  a 
dollar  to  every  poor  widow  in  town  to  help  pay  nor  rent ! 
No,  no,  my  friend,  you  can't  get  anything  here." 

"Just  as  you  feel  about  it,"  said  Andrew  Lyon. 
tk  There's  no  compulsion  in  the  matter." 

"No,  I  presume  not,"  was  rather  coldly  replied. 

Lyon  returned  to  his  shop,  still  more  disheartened 
than  before.  He  had  undertaken  a  thankless  office. 

Nearly  two  hours  elapsed  before  his  resolution  to  per- 
severe in  the  good  work  he  had  begun  came  back  with 
sufficient  force  to  prompt  to  another  effort.  Then  he 
dropped  in  upon  his  neighbour  Tompkins,  to  whom  he 
made  known  his  errand. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  I  must  do  something  in  a  case 
like  this,"  sa'd  Tompkins,  with  the  tone  and  air  of  a 
man  who  was  cornered.  "  But  there  are  so  many  calls 
for  charity,  that  we  are  naturally  enough  led  to  hold  on 
pretty  tightly  to  our  purse  strings.  Poor  woman !  I  feel 
sorry  for  her.  How  much  do  you  want?" 

"  I  am  trying  to  get  ten  persons,  including  myself,  to 
give  a  dollar  each." 

"  Well,  here's  my  dollar."  And  Tompkins  forced  a 
smile  to  his  face  as  he  handed  over  his  contribution, — 
but  the  smile  did  not  conceal  an  expression  which  said 
very  plainly — 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  trouble  me  again  in  this  way." 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  will  not,"  muttered  Lyon,  as  ho 
went  away.  He  fully  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
expression. 

Only  one  more  application  did  the  kind-hearted  man 
make  It  was  successful ;  but  there  was  something  in 


102  THE  THANKLESS   OFFICE. 

the  manner  of  the  individual  who  gave  his  dollar,  that 
Lyon  felt  as  a  rebuke. 

"  And  so  poor  Mrs.  Arnold  did  not  get  the  whole  of 
her  arrears  of  rent  paid  off,"  says  some  ono  who  has  felt 
an  interest  in  her  favour. 

Oh,  yes  she  did.  Mr.  Lyon  begged  five  dollars,  and 
added  five  more  from  his  own  slender  purse.  But,  he 
cannot  be  induced  again  to  undertake  the  thankless 
office  of  seeking  relief  from  the  benevolent  for  a  fellow 
creature  in  need.  He  has  learned  that  a  great  many 
who  refuse  alms  on  the  plea  that  the  object  presented  is 
not  worthy,  are  but  little  more  inclined  to  charitable 
deeds,  when  on  this  point  there  is  no  question. 

How  many  who  read  this  can  sympathize  with  Andrew 
Lyon !  Few  men  who  have  hearts  to  feel  for  others  but 
have  been  impelled,  at  some  time  in  their  lives,  to  seek 
aid  for  a  fellow  creature  in  need.  That  their  office  was 
a  thankless  one,  they  have  too  soon  become  aware. 
Even  those  who  responded  to  their  call  most  liberally, 
in  too  many  instances  gave  in  a  way  that  left  an  unplea- 
sant impression  behind.  How  quickly  has  the  first  glow 
of  generous  feeling,  that  sought  to  extend  itself  to  others, 
that  they  might  share  the  pleasure  of  humanity,  been 
chilled ;  and,  instead  of  finding  the  task  an  easy  one,  it 
has  proved  to  be  hard,  and,  too  often,  humiliating  !  Alas, 
thit  this  should  be  !  That  men  should  shut  their  hearts 
so  instinctively  at  the  voice  of  charity! 

We  have  not  written  this  to  discourage  active  efforts 
in  the  benevolent ;  but  to  hold  up  a  mirror  in  which  an- 
other class  may  see  themselves.  At  best,  the  office  of 
him  who  seeks  of  his  fellow  men  aid  for  the  suffering 


LOVE.  103 

indigent,  is  an  unpleasant  one.  It  is  all  sacrifice 
on  his  part,  and  the  least  that  can  be  done  is  to  honour 
his  disinterested  regard  for  others  in  distress,  and  treat 
him  with  delicacv  and  consideration. 


LOVE. 

OH  !  if  there  is  one  law  above  the  rest. 
Written  in  Wisdom — if  there  is  a  word 
That  I  would  trace  as  with  a  pen  of  tiro 
Upon  the  unsullied  temper  of  a  child—- 
If there  is  anything  that  keeps  the  mind 
Open  to  angel  visits,  and  repels 
The  ministry  of  ill— 'tis  Human  Love  I 
God  has  made  nothing  worthy  of  contempt; 
The  smallest  pebble  in  the  well  of  Truth 
Has  its  peculiar  meanings,  and  will  stand 
When  man's  best  monuments  wear  fast  away. 
The  law  of  Heaven  is  Love — and  though  its  name 
Has  been  usurped  by  passion,  and  profaned 
To  its  unholy  uses  through  all  time, 
Still,  the  external  principle  is  pure  ; 
And  in  these  deep  affections  that  we  feel 
Omnipotent  within  us,  can  we  see 
The  lavish  measure  in  which  love  is  given. 
And  in  the  yearning  tenderness  of  a  child 
For  every  bird  that  sings  above  its  head, 
And  every  creature  feeding  on  the  hills, 
And  every  tree  and  flower,  and  running  brook, 
We  see  how  everything  was  made  to  lovfi, 
And  how  they  err,  who,  in  a  world  like  fchis, 
Find  anything  to  hate  but  human  pride. 


'•EVERY  LITTLE  HELPS." 

WHAT  if  a  drop  of  rain  should  plead— 

"  So  small  a  drop  as  I 
Can  ne'er  refresh  the  thirsty  mead ; 

I'll  tarry  in  the  sky  2" 

What,  if  the  shining  beam  of  noon 
Should  in  its  fountain  stay  j 

Because  its  feeble  light  alone 
Cannot  create  a  day  ? 

Does  not  each  rain-drop  help  to  form 
The  cool  refreshing  shower  ? 

And  every  ray  of  light,  to  warm 
And  beautify  the  flower  ? 


LITTLE   THINGS. 


not  the  slightest  word  or  deed, 

Nor  deem  it  void  of  power  ; 
There's  fruit  in  each  wind-wafted  seed. 

AVaiting  its  natal  hour. 
A  whispered  word  may  touch  the  heart, 

And  call  it  back  to  life  ; 
A  look  of  love  bid  sin  depart, 

And  still  unholy  strife. 


CARELESS   WORDS.  105 

No  ai  t  falls  fruitless ;  none  can  tell 

How  vast  its  power  may  be, 
Nor  what  results  enfolded  dwell 

Within  it  silently. 
Work  and  despair  not ;  give  thy  mite, 

Nor  care  how  small  it  be ; 
God  is  with  all  that  serve  the  right, 

The  holy,  true,  and  free ! 


CARELESS  WORDS. 

FIVE  years  ago,  this  fair  November  day, — five  years  ? 
it  seems  but  yesterday,  so  fresh  is  that  scene  in  my  me- 
mory ;  and,  I  doubt  not,  were  the  period  ten  times  mul- 
tiplied, it  would  be  as  vivid  still  to  us — the  surviving 
actors  in  that  drama !  The  touch  of  time,  which  blunts 
the  piercing  thorn,  as  well  as  steals  from  the  rose  its 
lovely  tints,  is  powerless  here,  unless  to  give  darker 
shades  to  that  picture  engraven  on  our  souls ;  and  tears 
— ah,  they  only  make  it  more  imperishable ! 

We  do  not  speak  of  her  now ;  her  name  has  not  passed 
our  lips  in  each  other's  presence,  since  we  followed  her 
— grief-stricken  mourners — to  the  grave,  to  which — alas, 
alas  !  but  why  should  not  the  truth  be  spoken  ?  the  grave 
to  which  our  careless  words  consigned  her.  But  on  every 
anniversary  of  that  day  we  can  never  forget,  uninvited 
by  me,  and  without  any  previous  arrangement  between 
themselves,  those  two  friends  have  come  to  my  house, 
and  together  we  have  sat,  almost  silently,  save  when 
Ada's  sweet  voice  has  poured  forth  a  low,  plaintive  strain 


IOC  CARELESS   WORDS. 

to  the  mournful  chords  Mary  has  made  the  harp  to 
breathe.  Four  years  ago,  that  cousin  came  too ;  and 
since  then,  though  he  has  been  thousands  of  miles  dis- 
tant from  us,  when  that  anniversary  has  returned,  he 
has  written  to  me :  he  cannot  look  into  my  face  when 
that  letter  is  penned ;  he  but  looks  into  his  own  heart, 
and  he  cannot  withhold  the  words  of  remorse  and 
agony. 

Ada  and  Mary  have  sat  with  me  to-day,  and  we  knew 
that  Rowland,  in  thought,  was  here  too ;  ah,  if  we  could 
have  known  another  had  been  among  us, — if  we  could 
have  felt  that  an  eye  was  upon  us,  which  will  never  more 
dim  with  tears — a  heart  was  near  us  which  carelessness 
can  never  wound  again  ; — could  we  have  known  she  had 
been  here — that  pure,  bright  angel,  with  the  smile  of 
forgiveness  and  love  on  that  beautiful  face — the  dark 
veil  of  sorrow  might  have  been  lifted  from  our  souls ! 
but  we  saw  only  with  mortal  vision  ;  our  faith  was  feeble, 
and  we  have  only  drawn  that  sombre  mantle  more  and 
more  closely  about  us.  The  forgiveness  we  have  so  many 
times  prayed  for,  we  have  not  yet  dared  to  receive, 
though  we  know  it  is  our  own. 

That  November  day  was  just  what  this  has  been — 
fair,  mild,  and  sweet ;  and  how  much  did  that  dear  one 
enjoy  it !  The  earth  was  dry,  and  as  we  looked  from 
the  window  we  saw  no  verdure  but  a  small  line  of  green 
on  the  south  side  of  the  garden  enclosure,  and  around 
the  trunk  of  the  old  pear-tree,  and  here  and  there  a 
little  oasis  from  which  the  strong  wind  of  the  previous 
day  had  lifted  the  thick  covering  of  dry  leaves,  and  one 
or  two  shrubs,  whose  foliage  feared  not  the  cold  breath 


CARELESS    WORDS.  107 

of  winter.  The  gaudy  hues,  too,  which  nature  had  lately 
worn,  were  all  faded  ;  there  was  a  pale,  yellow-leafed 
vine  clambering  over  the  verdureless  lilac,  and  far  down 
in  the  garden  might  be  seen  a  shrub  covered  with  bright 
scarlet  berries.  But  the  warm  south  wind  was  sweet 
and  fragrant,  as  if  it  had  strayed  through  bowers  of 
roses  and  eglantines.  Deep-leaden  and  snow-white 
clouds  blended  together,  floated  lazily  through  the  sky, 
and  the  sun  coquetted  all  day  with  the  earth,  though  his 
glance  was  not,  for  once,  more  than  half  averted,  while 
his  smile  was  bright  and  loving,  as  it  had  been  months 
befo.'e,  when  her  face  was  fair  and  blooming. 

Bat  how  sadly  has  this  day  passed,  and  how  unlike  is 
this  calm,  sweet  evening  to  the  one  which  closed  that 
November  day !  Nature  is  the  same.  The  moonbeams 
look  as  bright  and  silvery  th  -ough  the  brown,  naked 
arms  of  the  tall  oaks,  and  the  dark  evergreen  forest  lifts 
up  its  head  to  the  sky,  striving,  but  in  vain,  to  shut  out 
the  soft  light  from  the  little  stream,  whose  murmurings 
seem  more  sad  and  complaining  than  at  another  season 
of  the  year,  perhaps  because  it  feels  how  soon  the  icy 
bands  of  winter  will  stay  its  free  course,  and  hush  its 
low  whisperings.  The  soft  breeze  sighs  as  sadly  through 
the  vines  which  still  wreath  themselves  around  the  win- 
dow ;  though  seemingly  conscious  they  have  ceased  to 
adorn  it,  they  are  striving  to  loosen  their  hold,  and  bo\v 
themselves  to  the  earth  ;  and  the  chirping  of  a  cricl  ct 
in  the  chimney  is  as  sad  and  mournful  as  it  was  then. 
But  the  low  moan  of  the  sufferer,  the  but  half-smothere-1, 
agonized  sobs  of  those  fair  girls,  the  deep  groan  which 
all  my  proud  cousin's  firmness  could  not  hush,  and  the 


108  CARELESS   WORDS. 

words  of  reproach,  which,  though  I  was  so  guilty  myself, 
and  though  I  saw  them  so  repentant,  I  could  not  with- 
hold, are  all  stilled  now. 

Ada  and  Mary  have  just  left  me,  and  I  am  sitting 
alone  in  my  apartment.  Not  a  sound  reaches  me  but 
the  whisperings  of  the  wind,  the  murmuring  of  the 
stream,  and  the  chirping  of  that  solitary  cricket.  The 
family  know  my  heart  is  heavy  to-night,  and  the  voices 
are  hushed,  and  the  footsteps  fall  lightly.  Lily,  dear 
Lily,  art  thou  near  me  ? 

Five  years  and  some  months  ago — it  was  in  early 
June — there  came  to  our  home  from  far  away  in  the 
sunny  South,  a  fair  young  creature,  a  relative  of  ours, 
though  we  had  never  seen  her  before.  She  had  been 
motherless  rather  less  than  a  year,  but  her  father  had 
already  found  another  partner,  and  feeling  that  she 
would  not  so  soon  see  the  place  of  the  dearly-loved  pa- 
rent filled  by  a  stranger,  she  had  obtained  his  permission 
to  spend  a  few  months  with  those  who  could  sympathize 
with  her  in  her  griefs. 

Lily  White  !  She  was  rightly  named  ;  I  have  never 
seen  such  a  fair,  delicate  face  and  figure,  nor  watched 
the  revealings  of  a  nature  so  pure  and  gentle  as  was 
hers.  She  would  have  been  too  fair  and  delicate  to  be 
beautiful,  but  for  the  brilliancy  of  those  deep  blue  eyes, 
the  dark  shade  of  that  glossy  hair,  and  the  lithene,~s  of 
that  fragile  form ;  but  when  months  had  passed  f  »vay, 
and,  though  the  brow  was  still  marble  white,  and  t!  e  lip 
colourless,  the  cheek  wore  that  deep  rose  tint,  hoi  sur- 
passingly beautiful  she  was !  We  did  not  drean?  what 
had  planted  that  rose-tint  there — we  thought  hei  to  b» 


CARELESS   WORDS.  109 

throwing  off  the  grief  which  alone,  we  believed,  had 
paled  her  cheek ;  and  we  did  not  observe  that  her  form 
was  becoming  more  delicate,  and  that  her  step  was  losing 
its  lightness  and  elasticity.  We  loved  the  sweet  Lily 
dearly  at  first  sight,  and  she  had  been  with  us  but  a 
short  time  before  we  began  to  wonder  how  our  home  had 
ever  seemed  perfect  to  us  previous  to  her  coming.  And 
our  affection  was  returned  by  the  dear  girl.  We  knew 
how  much  she  loved  us,  when,  as  the  warm  season  had 
passed,  and  her  father  sent  for  her  to  return  home,  we 
saw  the  expression  of  deep  sorrow  in  every  feature,  and 
the  silent  entreaty  that  we  would  persuade  him  to  allow 
her  to  remain  with  us  still. 

She  did  not  thank  me  when  a  letter  reached  me  from 
her  father,  in  reply  to  one  which,  unknown  to  her,  I 
had  sent  him,  saying,  if  I  thought  Lily's  health  would 
not  be  injured  by  a  winter's  residence  in  our  cold  climate, 
he  would  comply  with  my  urgent  request,  and  allow  her 
to  remain  with  us  until  the  following  spring — the  dear 
girl  could  not  speak.  She  came  to  me  almost  totter- 
ingly,  and  wound  her  arms  about  my  neck,  resting  her 
head  on  mine,  and  tears  from  those  sweet  eyes  fell  fast 
over  my  face ;  and  all  the  remainder  of  that  afternoon 
jilie  lay  on  her  couch.  Oh,  why  did  I  not  think  where- 
fore she  was  so  much  overcome  ? 

Ada  L and  Mary  R ,  two  friends  whom  1 

had  loved  from  childhood,  I  had  selected  as  companions 
for  our  dear  Lily  on  her  arrival  among  us,  and  the 
young  ladies,  from  their  first  introduction  to  her,  hail 
vied  with  me  in  my  endeavours  to  dispel  the  gloom  from 


110  CARELESS   WORDS. 

that  fair  face,  and  to  make  her  happy  ;  and  they  shared, 
almost  equally  with  her  relatives,  dear  Lily's  affections. 

Ada — she  is  changed  now — was  a  gay,  brilliant,  dar- 
ing girl ;  Mary,  witty  and  playful,  though  frank  and 
v<  arm-hearted ;  but  it  made  me  love  them  more  than 
ever.  The  gaiety  and  audacity  of  the  one  was  forgotten 
in  the  presence  of  the  thoughtful,  timid  Lily :  and  the 
other  checked  the  merry  jest  which  trembled  on  her  lips, 
and  sobered  that  roguish  eye  beside  the  earnest,  sensitive 
girl;  so  that,  though  we  were  together  almost  daily, 
dear  Lily  did  not  understand  the  character  of  the  young 
ladies. 

The  warm  season  had  passed  away,  and  Octobei 
brought  an  addition  to  our  household — Cousin  Rowland 
— as  handsome,  kind-hearted,  and  good-natured  a  fellow 
as  ever  lived,  but  a  little  cowardly,  if  the  dread  of  the 
raillery  of  a  beautiful  woman  may  be  called  cowardice. 

Cousin  Rowland  and  dear  Lily  were  mutually  pleased 
with  each  other,  it  was  very  evident  to  me,  though  Ada 
and  Mary  failed  to  see  it ;  for,  in  the  presence  of  the 
young  ladies,  Rowland  did  not  show  her  those  little  deli- 
cate attentions  which,  alone  with  me,  who  was  very 
unobservant,  he  took  no  pains  to  conceal ;  and  Lily  did 
not  hide  from  me  her  blushing  face — her  eyes  only 
thanked  me  for  the  expression  which  met  her  gaze. 

That  November  day — I  dread  to  approach  it !  Lily 
and  I  were  sitting  beside  each  other,  looking  down  the 
street,  and  watching  the  return  of  the  carriage  which 
Rowland  had  gone  out  with  to  bring  Ada  and  Mary  to 
our  house  ;  or,  rather,  Lily  was  looking  for  its  coming — 
my  eyes  were  resting  on  her  face.  It  had  never  looked 


CARELESS    WORDS.  Ill 

so  beautiful  to  me  before.  Her  brow  was  so  purely 
white,  her  cheek  was  so  deeply  red,  and  that  dark  eye 
was  so  lustrous;  but  her  face  was  very  thin,  and  her 
breathing,  I  observed,  was  faint  and  difficult.  A  pang 
shot  through  my  heart. 

"Lily,  are  you  well?"  I  exclaimed,  suddenly. 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  mine.  I  was  too  much  excited 
by  my  sudden  fear  to  read  their  expression,  but  when 
our  friends  came  in,  the  dear  girl  seemed  so  cheerful 
and  happy — I  remembered,  afterwards,  I  had  never  seen 
her  so  gay  as  on  that  afternoon — that  my  suspicions 
gradually  left  me. 

The  hours  were  passing  pleasantly  away,  when  a  letter 
was  brought  in  for  Lily.  It  was  from  her  father,  and 
the  young  lady  retired  to  peruse  it.  The  eye  of  Row- 
land followed  her  as  she  passed  out  of  the  room,  and  I 
observed  a  shadow  flit  across  his  brow.  I  afterwards 
learned  that  at  the  moment  a  thought  was  passing 
through  his  mind  similar  to  that  which  had  so  terrified 
me  an  hour  before.  Our  visiters  remarked  it,  too,  but 
little  suspected  its  cause ;  and  Mary's  eye  met,  with  a 
most  roguish  look,  Ada's  rather  inquiring  gaze. 

"When  does  Lily  intend  to  return  home,  S ?" 

she  inquired,  as  she  bent,  very  demurely,  over  her  em- 
broidery. "  I  thought  she  was  making  preparations  to 
go  before  Rowland  came  here  !"  and  she  raised  her  eyes 
so  cunningly  to  my  face,  that  I  could  not  forbear  an- 
swering, 

"I  hear  nothing  of  her  return,  now.  Perhaps  she 
will  remain  with  us  during  the  winter." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Ada,  and  her  voice  expressed 


112  CARELESS   WORDS. 

much  surprise.  "  I  wonder  if  I  could  make  such  a  pro- 
longed visit  interesting  to  a  friend !" 

"  Why,  Lily  considers  herself  conferring  a  great  favour 
by  remaining  here,"  replied  Mary. 

"  On  whom  ?"  asked  Rowland,  quickly. 

"On  all  of  us,  of  course;"  and  to  Mary's  great  de- 
iight  she  perceived  that  her  meaning  words  had  the  effect 
she  desired  on  the  young  man. 

"  I  hope  she  will  not  neglect  the  duty  she  owes  her 
family,  for  the  sake  of  showing  us  this  great  kindness," 
said  Rowland,  with  affected  carelessness,  though  he 
walked  across  the  apartment  with  a  very  impatient  step. 

"  Lily  has  not  again  been  guilty  of  the  error  she  so 

frequently  commits,  has  she,  S ?"  asked  Ada,  in  a 

lower  but  still  far  too  distinct  tone  ;  "  that  of  supposing 
herself  loved  ar.d  admired  where  she  is  only  pitied  and 
endured  ?"  and  the  merry  creature  fairly  exulted  in  the 
annoyance  which  his  deepened  colour  told  her  she  waa 
causing  the  young  man. 

A  slight  sound  from  the  apartment  adjoining  the  par- 
lour attracted  my  attention.  Had  Lily  stopped  there 
to  read  her  letter  instead  of  going  to  her  chamber  ?  and 
had  she,  consequently,  overheard  our  foolish  remarks  ? 
The  door  was  slightly  ajar,  and  I  pushed  it  open.  There 
was  a  slight  rustling,  but  I  thought  it  only  the  waving 
of  the  window  curtain. 

A  half-hour  passed  away,  and  Lily  had  not  returned 
to  us.  I  began  to  be  alarmed,  and  my  companions  par- 
took of  my  fears.  Had  she  overheard  us?  and,  if  so, 
what  must  that  sensitive  heart  be  suffering  ? 

I.  went  out  to  call  her ;  but  half  way  up  the  flight  of 


CARELESS    WORDS.  113 

Stairs  I  saw  the  letter  from  her  father  lying  on  the  car- 
put,  unopened,  though  it  had  been  torn  from  its  envelope. 
I  know  not  how  I  found  my  way  up  stairs,  but  I  stood 
by  Lily 'a  bed. 

Merciful  Heaven !  what  a  sight  was  presented  to  my 
gaze.  The  white  covering  was  stained  with  blood,  and 
from  those  cold,  pale  lips  the  red  drops  were  fast  falling. 
Her  eyes  turned  slowly  till  they  rested  on  mine.  What 
a  look  was  that !  I  see  it  now  ;  so  full  of  grief;  so  full 
of  reproach ;  and  then  they  closed.  I  thought  her  dead, 
and  my  frantic  shrieks  called  my  companions  to  her 
bedsHe.  They  aroused  her,  too,  from  that  swoon,  but 
they  Ud  not  awaken  her  to  consciousness.  She  never 
more  turned  a  look  of  recognition  on  us,  or  seemed  to 
be  aware  that  we  were  near  her.  Through  all  that  night, 
BO  long  and  so  full  of  agony  to  us,  she  was  murmuring, 
incoherently,  to  herself, 

"They  did  not  know  I  was  dying,"  she  would  say; 
"  that  I  have  been  dying  ever  since  I  have  been  here  ! 
They  have  not  dreamed  )f  my  sufferings  through  these 
long  months ;  I  could  not  tell  them,  for  I  believed  they 
loved  me,  and  I  would  not  grieve  them.  But  no  one 
loves  me — not  one  in  the  wide  world  cares  for  me  !  My 
mother,  you  will  not  have  forgotten  your  child  when  you 
meet  me  in  the  spirit-land !  Their  loved  tones  made 
lie  deaf  to  the  voice  which  was  calling  to  me  from  the 
grave,  and  the  sunshine  of  his  smile  broke  through  the 
dark  cloud  Avhich  death  was  drawing  around  me.  Oh,  I 
would  have  lived,  but  death,  I  thought,  would  lose  half 
its  bitterness,  could  I  breathe  my  last  in  their  arms ! 
8 


J14  HOW    TO    BE    HAPPY. 

But,  now,  I  must  die  alone !     Oh,  how  shall  1  reach  my 
home — how  shall  I  ever  reach  my  home?" 

Dear  Lily  !     The  passage  was  short ;  when  morning 
dawned,  she  was  there. 


HOW  TO  BE  HAPPY. 

A  BOON  of  inestimable  worth  is  a  calm,  thankful  heart 
— a  treasure  that  few,  very  few,  possess.  We  once  met 
an  old  man,  whose  face  was  a  mixture  of  smiles  and 
sunshine.  Wherever  he  went,  he  succeeded  in  making 
everybody  about  him  as  pleasant  as  himself. 

Said  we,  one  day, — for  he  was  one  of  that  delightfu» 
class  whom  everybody  feels  privileged  to  be  related  to, 
— "  Uncle,  uncle,  how  is  it  that  you  contrive  to  be  so 
happy  ?  Why  is  your  face  so  cheerful,  when  so  many 
thousands  are  craped  over  with  a  most  uncomfortable 
gloominess  ?" 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  he  answered,  with  his  pla- 
cid smile,  "  I  am  even  as  others,  afflicted  Avith  infirmities ; 
I  have  had  my  share  of  sorrow — some  would  say  more 
— but  I  have  found  out  the  secret  of  being  happy,  and 
it  is  this : 

"  Forget  self. 

"  Until  you  do  that,  you  can  lay  but  little  claim  to  a 
cheerful  spirit.  '  Forget  what  manner  of  man  you  are,' 
and  think  more  with,  rejoice  more  for,  your  neighbours. 
If  I  am  poor,  let  me  look  upon  my  richer  friend,  and  in 
estimpting  his  blessings,  forget  my  privations. 


HOW   TO    BE    HAPPY.  115 

"  If  my  neighbour  is  building  a  house,  let  me  watch 
with  him  its  progress,  and  think,  '  Well,  what  a  comfort- 
able place  it  will  be,  to  be  sure ;  how  much  he  may 
enjoy  it  with  his  family.'  Thus  I  have  a  double  plea- 
sure— that  of  delight  in  noting  the  structure  as  it  expands 
into  beauty,  and  making  my  neighbour's  weal  mroe.  If 
he  has  planted  a  fine  garden,  I  feast  my  eyes  on  the 
flowers,  smell  their  fragrance :  could  I  do  more  if  it  ws-s 
my  own  ? 

"  Another  has  a  family  of  fine  children ;  they  bless 
him  and  are  blessed  by  him ;  mine  are  ail  gone  befora 
me ;  I  have  none  that  bear  my  name ;  shall  I,  therefore, 
envy  my  neighbour  his  lovely  children  ?  No ;  let  me 
enjoy  their  innocent  smiles  with  him  ;  let  me  forge** 
myself — my  tears  when  they  were  put  away  in  darkness 
or  if  I  weep,  may  it  be  for  joy  that  God  took  them 
untainted  to  dwell  with  His  holy  angels  for  ever. 

"  Believe  an  old  man  when  he  says  there  is  great 
pleasure  in  living  for  others.  The  heart  of  the  selfish 
man  is  like  a  city  full  of  crooked  lanes.  If  a  generous 
thought  from  some  glorious  temple  strays  in  there,  wo  to 
it — it  is  lost.  It  wanders  about,  and  wanders  about, 
until  enveloped  in  darkness ;  as  the  mist  of  selfishness 
gathers  around,  it  lies  down  upon  some  cold  thought  to 
die,  and  is  shrouded  in  oblivion. 

"  So,  if  you  would  be  happy,  shun  selfishness ;  do  a 
kindly  deed  for  this  one,  speak  a  kindly  word  for  ano- 
ther. He  who  is  constantly  giving  pleasure,  is  con- 
stantly receiving  it.  The  little  river  gives  to  the  great 
ocean,  and  the  more  it  gives  the  faster  it  runs.  Stop  its 
flowing,  and  the  hot  sun  would  dry  it  up,  till  it  would  be 
but  filthy  mud,  sending  forth  bad  odours,  and  corrupting 


116  CHARITY.— ITS    OBJECTS. 

the  fresh  air  of  Heaven.  Keep  your  heart  constantly 
travelling  on  errands  of  mercy — it  has  feet  that  never 
tire,  hands  that  cannot  be  overbui'dened,  eyes  that  never 
sleep ;  freight  its  hands  with  blessings,  direct  its  eyes — 
no  matter  how  narrow  your  sphere — to  the  nearest  object 
of  suffering,  and  relieve  it. 

"  I  say,  my  dear  young  friend,  take  the  word  of  an 
old  man  for  it,  who  has  tried  every  known  panacea,  and 
found  all  to  fail,  except  this  golden  rule, 

"Forget  self,  and  keep  the  heart  busy  for  others." 


CHARITY.— ITS  OBJECTS. 

THE  great  Teacher,  on  being  asked  "Who  is  my 
neighbour  ?"  replied  "  A  man  went  down  from  Jerusalem 
to  Jericho,"  and  the  parable  which  followed  is  the  most 
beautiful  which  language  has  ever  recorded.  Story- 
telling, though  often  abused,  is  the  medium  by  which 
truth  can  be  most  irresistibly  conveyed  to  the  majority 
of  minds,  and  in  the  present  instance  we  have  a  desire 
to  portray  in  some  slight  degree  the  importance  of 
Charity  in  every-day  life. 

A  great  deal  has  been  said  and  written  on  the  subject 
of  indiscriminate  giving,  and  many  who  have  little  sym- 
pathy with  the  needy  or  distressed,  make  the  supposed 
unworthiness  of  the  object  an  excuse  for  withholding 
their  alms ;  while  others,  who  really  possess  a  large  pro- 
portion of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  in  awaiting  great 
of  portunities  to  do  good,  overlook  all  in  their  immediate 


CHARITY. — ITS    OBJECTS.  ll'i 

pathway,  as  beneath  their  notice.  And  yet  it  was  the 
"widow's  mite"  which,  amid  the  many  rich  gifts  east 
into  the  treasury,  won  the  approval  of  the  Searcher  of 
Hearts;  and  we  have  His  assurance  that  a  cup  of  cold 
water  given  in  a  proper  spirit  shall  not  lose  its  reward. 

Our  design  in  the  present  sketch  is  to  call  the  atten- 
tion of  the  softer  sex  to  a  subject  which  has  in  too  many 
instances  escaped  their  attention ;  for  our  ideas  of 
Charity  embrace  a  wide  field,  and  we  hold  that  it  should 
at  all  times  be  united  with  justice,  when  those  less 
favoured  than  themselves  are  concerned. 

"  I  do  not  intend  hereafter  to  have  washing  done  more 
than  once  in  two  weeks,"  said  the  rich  Mrs.  Percy,  in 
reply  to  an  observation  of  her  husband,  who  was  stand- 
ing at  the  window,  looking  at  a  woman  who  was  up  to 
her  knees  in  the  snow,  hanging  clothes  on  a  line  in  the 
yard.  "  I  declare  it  is  too  bad,  to  be  paying  that  poking 
old  thing  a  half-a-dollar  a  week  for  our  wash,  and  only 
six  in  the  family.  There  she  has  been  at  it  since  seven 
o'clock  this  morning,  and  now  it  is  almost  four.  It  will 
require  but  two  or  three  hours  longer  if  I  get  her  once 
a  fortnight,  and  I  shall  save  twenty-five  cents  a  week 
by  it." 

"  When  your  own  sex  are  concerned,  you  women  are 
the  closest  beings,"  said  Mr.  P.,  laughing.  "Do  just  as 
you  please,  however,"  he  continued,  as  he  observed  a 
frown  gather  on  the  brow  of  his  wife ;  "  for  my  part  I 
should  be  glad  if  washing-days  were  blotted  entirely 
from  the  calendar." 

At  this  moment  the  washerwoman  passed  the  window 
with  her  stiffened  skirts  and  almost  frozen  hands  and 


118  CHARITY. — ITS    OBJECTS. 

arms.  Some  emotions  of  pity  stirring  in  his  breast  at 
the  sight,  he  again  asked,  '•  Do  you  think  it  will  be 
exactly  right,  my  dear,  to  make  old  Phoebe  do  the  same 
amount  of  labour  for  half  the  wages  ?" 

"Of  course  it  will,"  replied  Mrs.  Percy,  decidedly; 
"  we  are  bound  to  do  the  best  we  can  for  ourselves.  If 
she  objects,  she  can  say  so.  There  are  plenty  of  poor 
I  can  get  who  will  be  glad  to  come,  and  by  this  arrange- 
ment I  shall  save  thirteen  dollars  a  year." 

"  So  much,"  returned  Mr.  P.,  carelessly  ;  "  how  these 
things  do  run  up!"  Here  the  matter  ended  as  far  as 
they  were  concerned.  Not  so  with  "old  Phoebe,"  as  she 
was  called.  In  reality,  however,  Phoebe  was  not  yet 
forty ;  it  was  care  and  hardship  which  had  seamed  her 
once  blooming  face,  and  brought  on  prematurely  the 
appearance  of  age.  On  going  to  Mrs.  Percy  in  the 
evening  after  she  had  finished  her  wash,  for  the  meagre 
sum  she  had  earned,  that  lady  had  spoken  somewhat 
harshly  about  her  being  so  slow,  and  mentioned  the  new 
arrangement  she  intended  to  carry  into  effect,  leaving  it 
optional  with  the  poor  woman  to  accept  or  decline. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Phoebe,  whose  necessities 
allovied  her  no  choice,  agreed  to  her  proposal,  and  the 
lady,  who  had  been  fumbling  in  her  purse,  remarked : — 

"  I  have  no  change,  nothing  less  than  this  three-dollar 
bill.  Suppose  I  pay  you  by  the  month  hereafter ;  it 
will  save  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  I  will  try  to 
give  you  your  dollar  a  month  regularly." 

Phoebe's  pale  cheek  waxed  still  more  ghastly  as  Mrs. 
Percy  spoke,  but  it  was  not  within  that  lady's  province 
to  nofc'ce  the  colour  of  a  washerwoman's  face.  She  did, 


CHARITY. — ITS   OBJECTS.  119 

however,  observe  her  lingering,  weary  steps  as  she  pro- 
ceeded through  the  yard,  and  conscience  whispered  some 
reproaches,  which  were  so  unpleasant  and  unwelcome, 
that  she  endeavored  to  dispel  them  by  turning  to  the 
luxurious  supper  which  was  spread  before  her.  And 
here  I  would  pause  to  observe,  that  whatever  method 
maybe  adopted  to  reconcile  the  conscience  to  withhold* 
ing  money  so  justly  due,  so  hardly  earned,  she  disobeyed 
the  positive  injunction  of  that  God  who  has  not  left  the 
time  of  payment  optional  with  ourselves,  but  who  has 
said — "  The  wages  of  him  that  is  hired,  shall  not  abide 
with  thee  all  night  until  the  morning. — Lev.  19  chap. 
13th  verse. 

The  husband  of  Phoebe  was  a  day  labourer;  when 
not  intoxicated  he  was  kind ;  but  this  was  of  rare  occur- 
rence, for  most  of  his  earnings  went  for  ardent  spirits, 
and  the  labour  of  the  poor  wife  and  mother  was  the 
main  support  of  herself  and  four  children — the  eldest 
nine  years,  the  youngest  only  eighteen  months  old.  As 
she  neared  the  wretched  hovel  she  had  left  early  in  the 
morning,  she  saw  the  faces  of  her  four  little  ones  pressed 
close  against  the  window. 

"Mother's  coming,  mother's  coming!"  they  shouted, 
as  they  watched  her  approaching  through  the  gloom,  and 
as  she  unlocked  the  door,  which  she  had  been  obliged  to 
fasten  to  keep  them  from  straying  away,  they  all  sprang 
to  her  arms  at  once. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  babes  !"  she  exclaimed,  gathering 
them  to  her  heart,  "  you  have  not  been  a  minute  absent 
from  my  mind  this  day.  And  what  have  you  suffered/' 
she  add^d,  clasping  the  youngest,  a  sickly,  attenuated 


120  CHARITY. — ITS    OBJECTS. 

'noking  object,  to  her  breast.  "  Oh  !  it  is  ban!,  my 
little  Mary,  to  leave  you  to  the  tender  mercies  of  children 
hardly  able  to  take  care  of  themselves."  And  as  the 
baby  nestled  its  head  closer  to  her  side,  and  lifted  its 
pale,  imploring  face,  the  anguished  mother's  fortitude 
gave  way,  and  she  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears  and 
sobbings.  By-the-by,  do  some  mothers,  as  they  sit  bj 
the  softly-lined  cradles  of  their  own  beloved  babes,  ever 
think  upon  the  sufferings  of  those  hapless  little  ones, 
many  times  left  with  a  scanty  supply  of  food,  and  no 
fire,  on  a  cold  winter  day,  while  the  parent  is  earning 
the  pittance  which  is  to  preserve  them  from  starvation  ? 
And  lest  some  may  suppose  that  we  are  drawing  largely 
upon  our  imagination,  we  will  mention,  in  this  place, 
that  we  knew  of  a  child  left  under  such  circumstances, 
and  half-perishing  with  cold,  who  was  nearly  burned  to 
death  by  some  hops  (for  there  was  no  fuel  to  be  found), 
which  it  scraped  together  in  its  ragged  apron,  and  set 
on  fire  with  a  coal  found  in  the  ashes. 

Phoebe  did  not  indulge  long  in  grief,  however  she  for- 
got her  weary  limbs,  and  bustling  about,  soon  made  up  a 
fire,  and  boiled  some  potatoes,  which  constituted  their 
supper — after  which  she  nursed  the  children,  two  at  a 
time,  for  a  while,  and  then  put  them  tenderly  to  bed. 
Her  husband  had  not  come  home,  and  as  he  was  nearly 
always  intoxicated,  and  sometimes  ill-treated  her  sadly, 
she  felt  his  absence  a  relief.  Sitting  over  a  handful  of 
coals,  she  attempted  to  dry  her  wet  feet ;  every  bone  in 
her  body  ached,  for  she  was  not  naturally  strong,  and 
leaning  her  head  on  her  hand,  she  allowed  the  big  tears 


CHARITY. — ITS   OBJECTS.  121 

to  course  slowly  down  her  cheeks,  without  making  any 
attempt  to  wipe  them  away,  while  she  murmured  : 

"  Thirteen  dollars  a  year  gone  !  "What  is  to  become 
of  us  ?  I  cannot  get  help  from  those  authorized  by  law 
to  assist  the  poor,  unless  I  agree  to  put  out  my  children, 
and  I  cannot  live  and  see  them  abused  and  over-worked 
%t  their  tender  age.  And  people  think  their  father 
might  support  us ;  but  how  can  I  help  it  thsit  he  spends 
all  his  earnings  in  drink?  And  rich  as  Mrs.  Percy  is, 
she  did  not  pay  me  my  wages  to-night,  and  now  I  cannot 
got  the  yarn  for  my  baby's  stockings,  and  her  little 
limbs  must  remain  cold  awhile  longer ;  and  I  must  do 
without  the  flour,  too,  that  I  was  going  to  make  into 
bread,  and  the  potatoes  are  almost  gone." 

Here  Phoebe's  emotions  overcame  her,  and  she  ceased 
speaking.  After  a  while,  she  continued — 

"Mrs.  Percy  also  blamed  me  for  being- so  slow;  she 
did  not  know  that  I  was  up  half  the  night,  and  that  my 
head  has  ached  ready  to  split  all  day.  Oh  !  dear,  oh  ! 
dear,  oh!  dear,  if  it  were  not  for  my  babes,  I  should 
yearn  for  the  quiet  of  the  grave  !" 

And  with  a  long,  quivering  sigh,  such  as  one  might 
heave  at  the  rending  of  soul  and  body,  Phoebe  was  silent. 

Daughters  of  luxury  !  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that 
we  arc  all  the  children  of  one  common  Parent  ?  Oh, 
look  hereafter  with  pity  on  those  faces  where  the  records 
of  suffering  are  deeply  graven,  and  remember  "Be  ye 
warmed  and  filled,"  will  not  suffice,  unless  the  hand 
executes  the  promptings  of  the  heart.  After  awhile,  aa 
the  fire  '.lied  out,  Phoebe  crept  to  her  miserable  pallet, 
crushed  with  the  prospect  of  the  days  of  toil  which  were 


122  CHAIIITT. — ITS   OBJECTS. 

still  before  her,  and  haunted  by  the  idea  of  sickness  and 
death,  brought  on  by  over-taxation  of  her  bodily  powers, 
•while  in  case  of  such  an  event,  she  was  tortured  by  the 
reflection — "what  is  to  become  of  my  children?" 

Ah,  this  anxiety  is  the  true  bitterness  of  death,  to  the 
friendless  and  poverty-stricken  parent.  In  this  way 
she  passed  the  night,  to  renew,  with  the  dawn,  the  toils 
and  cares  which  were  fast  closing  their  work  on  her. 
We  will  not  say  what  Phoebe,  under  other  circumstances, 
might  have  been.  She  possessed  every  iioble  attribute 
common  to  woman,  without  education,  or  training,  out 
she  was  not  prepossessing  in  her  appearance ;  and  Mrs. 
Percy,  who  never  studied  character,  or  sympathized  with 
menials,  or  strangers,  Avould  have  laughed  at  the  idea  of 
dwelling  with  compassion  on  the  lot  of  her  washerwoman 
with  a  drunken  husband.  Yet  her  feelings  sometimes 
became  interested  for  the  poor  she  heard  of  abroad,  the 
poor  she  read  of,  and  she  would  now  and  then  descant 
largely  on  the  few  eases  of  actual  distress  which  had 
chanced  to  come  under  her  notice,  and  the  little  oppor- 
tunity she  enjoyed  of  bestowing  alms.  Superficial  in 
her  mode  of  thinking  and  observation,  her  ideas  of 
charity  were  limited,  forgetful  that  to  be  true  it  must  be 
a  pervading  principle  of  life,  and  can  be  exercised  oven 
in  the  bestowal  of  a  gracious  word  or  smile,  which,  under 
peculiar  circumstances,  may  raise  a  brother  from  the 
dust — and  thus  win  the  approval  of  Him,  who,  although 
the  Lord  of  angels,  was  pleased  to  say  of  her  wno 
Brought  but  the  "  box  of  spikenard" — with  tears  of  love 
— "  She  hath  done  what  she  could" 


"  The  mist  that  the  mountain  enshrouds.' 


THE  VISION  OF  BOATS. 

ONE  norn,  when  the  Day-god,  yet  hidden 
By  the  mist  that  the  mountain  enshrouds, 

Was  hoarding  up  hyacinth  blossoms, 
And  roses,  to  fling  at  the  clouda ; 

1  saw  from  the  casement,  that  northward 
Looks  out  on  the  Valley  of  Pines, 

(The  casement,  where  all  day  in  summer, 
You  hear  the  drew  drop  from  the  vines), 

White  shapes  'mid  tne  purple  wreaths  glancing 
juike  the  banners  of  hosts  at  strife ; 

But  I  knew  they  were  silvery  pennons 
Of  boats  on  the  River  of  Life. 

And  I  watched,  as  the  mist  cleared  upward, 

Half  hoping,  yet  fearing  to  see 
On  that  rapid  and  rock-sown  River, 

What  the  fate  of  the  boats  might  be. 

There  were  some  that  sped  cheerily  onward, 
With  white  sails  gallantly  spread ; 

Yet  ever  there  sat  at  the  look-out, 
One,  watching  for  danger  ahead. 

No  fragrant  and  song-haunted  island, 

No  golden  and  gem-studded  coast 
Could  win,  with  its  ravishing  beauty, 

The  watcher  away  from  his  post. 


124  THE   VISION   OF   BOATS. 

When  the  tempest  crouched  low  on  the  waters, 
And  fiercely  th«  hurricane  swept, 

With  furled  aaila,  cautiously  wearing, 
Still  onward  in  safety  they  kept. 

And  many  sailed  well  for  a  season, 
When  river  and  sky  were  serene, 

And  leisurely  swung  the  light  rudder, 
'Twixt  borders  of  blossoming  green. 

But  the  Storm-King  came  out  from  his  caverna, 
With  whirlwind,  and  lightning,  and  rain  ; 

And  my  eyes,  that  grew  dim  for  a  moment, 
Saw  but  the  rent  canvas  again. 

Then  sorely  I  wept  the  ill-fated  I 

Yea,  bitterly  wept,  for  I  knew 
They  had  learned  but  the  fair-weather  wisdos^, 

That  a  moment  of  trial  o'erthrew. 

And  one  in  its  swift  sinking,  parted 

A  placid  and  sun-bright  wave  ; 
Oh,  deftly  the  rock  was  hidden, 

That  keepeth  that  voyager's  grave  I 

And  I  sorrowed  to  think  how  little 

Of  aid  from  a  kindly  hand, 
Might  have  guided  the  beautiful  vessel 

Away  from  the  treacherous  strand. 

And  I  watched  with  a  murmur  of  blessing 

The  few  that  on  either  shore 
Were  setting  up  signals  of  warning, 

Where  many  had  perished  before. 


BEGULATION   OF   THE   TEMPER.  125 

But  now,  as  the  sunlight  came  creeping 
Through  the  half-opened  lids  of  the  morn, 

Fast  faded  that  wonderful  pageant, 
Of  shadows  and  drowsiness  born. 

And  no  sound  could  I  hear  but  the  sighing 

Of  winds,  in  the  Valley  of  Pines; 
And  the  heavy,  monotonous  dropping 

Of  dew  from  the  shivering  vines. 

But  all  day,  'mid  the  clashing  of  Labour, 

And  the  city's  unmusical  notes, 
With  thoughts  that  went  seeking  the  hidden, 

I  pondered  that  Vision  of  Boats. 


REGULATION  OF  THE  TEMPER. 

THERE  is  considerable  ground  for  thinking  that  the 
opinion  very  generally  prevails  that  the  temper  is  some- 
thing beyond  the  power  of  regulation,  control,  or  govern- 
ment. A  good  temper,  too,  if  we  may  judge  from  the 
usual  excuses  for  the  want  of  it,  is  hardly  regarded  in 
the  light  of  an  attainable  quality.  To  be  slow  in  taking 
offence,  and  moderate  in  the  expression  of  resentment. 
in  which  things  good  temper  consists,  seems  to  be  gene- 
rally reckoned  rather  among  the  gifts  of  nature,  the  pri- 
vileges of  a  happy  constitution,  than  among  the  possible 
results  of  careful  self-discipline.  When  we  have  been 
fretted  by  some  petty  grievance,  or  hurried  by  sorc.e 
reasonable  cause  of  offence  into  a  degree  of  anger  tar 


126  REGULATION    OF   THE   TEMPER. 

beyond  what  the  occasion  required,  our  subsequei  t 
regret  is  seldom  of  a  kind  for  which  we  are  likely  to  be 
much  better.  We  bewail  ourselves  for  a  misfortune, 
rather  than  condemn  ourselves  for  a  fault.  We  speak 
of  our  unhappy  temper  as  if  it  were  something  that 
entirely  removed  the  blame  from  jis,  and  threw  it  all 
upon  the  peculiar  and  unavoidable  sensitiveness  of  our 
frame.  A  peevish  and  irritable  temper  is,  indeed,  an 
unhappy  one ;  a  source  of  misery  to  ourselves  and  to 
others ;  but  it  is  not,  in  all  cases,  so  valid  an  excuse  for 
being  easily  provoked,  as  it  is  usually  supposed  to  be. 

A  good  temper  is  too  important  a  source  of  happiness, 
and  an  ill  temper  too  important  a  source  of  misery,  to 
be  treated  with  indifference  or  hopelessness.  The  false 
excuses  or  modes  of  regarding  this  matter,  to  which  we 
have  referred,  should  be  exposed  ;  for  until  their  invali- 
dity and  incorrectness  are  exposed,  no  efforts,  or  but 
feeble  ones,  will  be  put  forth  to  regulate  an  ill  temper, 
or  to  cultivate  a  good  one. 

We  allow  that  there  are  great  differences  of  natural 
constitution.  One  who  is  endowed  with  a  poetical  tem- 
perament, or  a  keen  sense  of  beauty,  or  a  great  love  of 
order,  or  very  large  ideality,  will  be  pained  by  the  wan' 
or  the  opposites  of  these  qualities,  where  one  less  amply 
endowed  would  suffer  no  provocation  whatever.  What 
would  grate  most  harshly  on  the  ear  of  an  eminent  musi- 
cian, might  not  be  noticed  at  all  by  one  whose  musical 
faculties  were  unusually  small.  The  same  holds  true  in 
regard  to  some  other,  besides  musical  deficiencies  or  dis- 
cords. A  delicate  arid  sickly  frame  will  feel  annoyed 
by  what  would  not  at  all  disturb  the  same  frame  in  a 


REGULATION   OF   THE   1EMPER.  127 

Btate  of  vigorous  health.  Particular  circumstances, 
also,  may  expose  some  to  greater  trials  and  vexations 
than  others.  But,  after  all  this  is  granted,  the  only 
reasonable  conclusion  seems  to  be,  that  the  attempt  to 
govern  the  temper  is  more  difficult  in  some  cases  than 
in  others ;  not  that  it  is,  in  any  case,  impossible.  It  is, 
at  least,  certain  that  an  opinion  of  its  impossibility  is 
an  effectual  bar  against  entering  upon  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  "  believe  that  you  will  succeed,  and  you  will  suc- 
ceed," is  a  maxim  which  has  nowhere  been  more  fre- 
quently verified  than  in  the  moral  world.  It  should  be 
among  the  first  maxims  admitted,  and  the  last  aban- 
doned, by  every  earnest  seeker  of  his  own  moral  im- 
provement. 

Then,  too,  facts  demonstrate  that  much  has  been  done 
and  can  be  done  in  regulating  the  worst  of  tempers. 
The  most  irritable  or  peevish  temper  has  been  restrained 
by  company ;  has  been  subdued  by  interest ;  has  been 
awed  by  fear;  has  been  softened  by  grief;  has  been 
sooothed  by  kindness.  A  bad  temper  has  shown  itself, 
in  the  same  individuals,  capable  of  increase,  liable  to 
change,  accessible  to  motives.  Such  facts  are  enough 
to  encourage,  in  every  case,  an  attempt  to  govern  the 
temper.  All  the  miseries  of  a  bad  temper,  and  all  the 
blessings  of  a  good  one,  may  be  attained  by  an  habi- 
tual tolerance,  concern,  and  kindness  for  others — by  an 
habitual  restraint  of  considerations  and  feel'ngs  entirely 
Belfish. 

To  those  of  our  readers  who  feel  moved  or  resolved  by 
the  considerations  we  have  named  to  attempt  to  regulate 
their  temper,  or  to  cultivate  one  of  a.  higher  orclej  of 


128  REGULATION    OF   THE   TEMPER. 

excellence,  we  would  submit  a  few  suggestions  which 
may  assist  them  in  their  somewhat  difficult  undertaking. 

See,  first  of  all,  that  you  set  as  high  a  value  on  the 
comfort  of  those  with  whom  you  have  to  do  as  you  do  on 
your  own.  If  you  regard  your  own  comfort  exclusively, 
you  will  not  make  the  allowances  which  a  proper  regard 
to  the  happiness  of  others  would  lead  you  to  do. 

Avoid,  particularly  in  your  intercourse  with  those  to 
whom  it  is  of  most  consequence  that  your  temper  should 
be  gentle  and  forbearing — avoid  raising  into  undue  im- 
portance the  little  failings  which  you  may  perceive  in 
them,  or  the  trifling  disappointments  which  they  may 
occasion  you.  If  we  make  it  a  subject  of  vexation,  that 
the  beings  among  whom  we  are  destined  to  live,  are  not 
perfect,  we  must  give  up  all  hope  of  attaining  a  temper 
not  easily  provoked.  A  habit  of  trying  everything  by 
the  standard  of  perfection  vitiates  the  temper  more  than 
it  improves  the  understanding,  and  disposes  the  mind  to 
discern  faults  with  an  unhappy  penetration.  I  would 
not  have  you  shut  your  eyes  to  the  errors  or  follies,  or 
thoughtlessnesses  of  your  friends,  but  only  not  to  mag- 
nify them  or  view  them  microscopically.  Regard  them 
in  others  as  you  would  have  them  regard  the  same  things 
in  you,  in  an  exchange  of  circumstances. 

Do  not  forget  to  make  due  allowances  for  the  original 
constitution  and  the  manner  of  education  or  bringing  up, 
which  has  been  the  lot  of  those  with  whom  you  have  to 
do.  Make  such  excuses  for  others  as  the  circumstances 
of  their  constitution,  rearing,  and  youthful  associations, 
lo  fairly  demand. 

Always  put  the  best  construction  on  the  motives  of 


REGULATION    OF   THE   TEMPER.  129 

others,  when  their  conduct  admits  of  more  than  one  way 
of  understanding  it.  In  many  cases,  where  neglect  or 
ill  intention  seems  evident  at  first  sight,  it  may  prove 
true  that  "  second  thoughts  are  best."  Indeed,  this 
common  saying  is  never  more  likely  to  prove  true  than 
in  cases  in  which  the  first  thoughts  were  the  dictates  of 
anger.  And  even  when  the  first  thoughts  are  confirmed 
by  further  evidence,  yet  the  habit  of  always  waiting  for 
complete  evidence  before  we  condemn,  must  have  a  calm- 
ing and  moderating  effect  upon  the  temper,  while  it  will 
take  nothing  from  the  authority  of  our  just  censures. 

It  will,  further,  be  a  great  help  to  our  efforts,  as  well 
as  our  desires,  for  the  government  of  the  temper,  if  we 
consider  frequently  and  seriously  the  natural  conse- 
quences of  hasty  resentments,  angry  replies,  rebukes 
impatiently  given  or  impatiently  received,  muttered  dis- 
contents, sullen  looks,  and  harsh  words.  It  may  safely 
be  asserted  that  the  consequences  of  these  and  other 
ways  in  which  ill-temper  may  show  itself,  are  entirely 
evil.  The  feelings  which  accompany  them  in  ourselves, 
and  those  which  they  excite  in  others,  are  unprofitable 
as  well  as  painful.  They  lessen  our  own  comfort,  and 
tend  often  rather  to  prevent  than  to  promote  the  im- 
provement of  those  with  whom  we  find  fault.  If  we 
give  even  friendly  and  judicious  counsels  in  a  harsh  and 
pettish  tone,  we  excite  against  them  the  repugnance 
naturally  felt  to  our  manner.  The  consequence  is,  that 
the  advice  is  slighted,  and  the  peevish  adviser  pitied, 
despised,  or  hated. 

When  we  cannot  succeed  in  putting  a  restraint  on 
our  feelings  of  anger  or  dissatisfaction,  we  can  at  least 

a 


130  MANLY   GENTLENESS. 

check  the  expression  of  those  feelings.  If  our  thoughts 
are  not  always  in  our  power,  our  words  and  actions  and 
looks  may  be  brought  under  our  command ;  and  a  com- 
mand over  these  expressions  of  our  thoughts  and  feelings 
will  be  found  no  mean  help  towards  obtaining  an  in- 
crease of  power  over  our  thoughts  and  feelings  them- 
selves. At  least,  one  great  good  will  be  effected :  time 
will  be  gained ;  time  for  reflection ;  time  for  charitable 
allowances  and  excuses. 

Lastly,  seek  the  help  of  religion.  Consider  how  you 
may  most  certainly  secure  the  approbation  of  God.  For 
a  good  temper,  or  a  well-regulated  temper,  may  be  the 
constant  homage  of  a  truly  religious  man  to  that  God, 
whose  love  and  long-suffering  forbearance  surpass  all 
human  love  and  forbearance. 


MANLY  GENTLENESS. 

WHO  is  the  most  wretched  man  living?  This  question 
might  constitute  a  very  fair  puzzle  to  those  of  our  readers 
whose  kind  hearts  have  given  them,  in  their  own  experi- 
ence, no  clue  to  the  true  answer.  It  is  a  species  of 
happiness  to  be  rich;  to  have  at  one's  command  an 
abundance  of  the  elegancies  and  luxuries  of  life.  Then, 
he,  perhaps,  is  the  most  miserable  of  men  who  is  the 
poorest.  It  is  a  species  of  happiness  to  be  the  possessor 
of  learning,  fame,  or  power;  and  therefore,  perhaps,  he 
is  the  most  miserable  man  who  is  the  most  ignorant, 


MANLY   GENTLENESS.  131 

despised,  and  helpless.  No ;  there  is  a  man  more 
wretched  than  these.  We  know  not  where  he  may  be 
found  ;  hut  find  him  where  you  will,  in  a  prison  or  on  a 
throne,  steeped  in  poverty  or  surrounded  with  princely 
affluence ;  execrated,  as  he  deserves  to  he,  or  crowned 
with  world-wide  applause ;  that  man  is  the  most  mise- 
rable whose  heart  contains  the  least  love  for  others. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  be  beloved.  Who  has  not  felt  this  ? 
Human  affection  is  priceless.  A  fond  heart  is  more 
valuable  than  the  Indies.  But  it  is  a  still  greater  plea- 
sure to  love  than  to  be  loved ;  the  emotion  itself  is  of  a 
higher  kind ;  it  calls  forth  our  own  powers  into  more 
agreeable  exercise,  and  is  independent  of  the  caprice  of 
others.  Generally  speaking,  if  we  deserve  to  be  loved, 
otbers  will  love  us,  but  this  is  not  always  the  case. 
The  love  of  others  towards  us,  is  not  always  in  pro- 
portion to  our  real  merits ;  and  it  would  be  unjust  to 
make  our  highest  happiness  dependent  on  it.  But  our 
love  for  others  will  always  be  in  proportion  to  our  real 
goodness ;  the  more  amiable,  the  more  excellent  we 
become,  the  more  shall  we  love  others ;  it  is  right, 
therefore,  that  this  love  should  be  made  capable  of  be- 
Btowing  upon  us  the  largest  amount  of  happiness.  This 
is  the  arrangement  which  the  Creator  has  fixed  upon. 
By  virtue  of  our  moral  constitution,  to  love  is  to  be 
happy  ;  to  hate  is  to  be  wretched. 

Hatred  is  a  strong  word,  and  the  idea  it  conveys  is 
very  repulsive.  We  would  hope  that  few  of  our  readers 
know  by  experience  what  it  is  in  its  full  e»xtent.  To  be 
a  very  demon,  to  combine  in  ourselves  the  highest  pos- 
lible  degree  of  wickedness  and  misery,  nothing  more  is 


132  MANLY   GENTLENESS. 

needful  than  to  hate  with  sufficient  intensity.  But 
though,  happily,  comparatively  few  persons  are  fully 
under  the  influence  of  this  baneful  passion,  how  many 
are  under  it  more  frequently  and  powerfully  than  they 
ought  to  be  ?  How  often  do  we  indulge  in  resentful, 
revengeful  feelings,  with  all  of  which  hatred  more  or 
less  mixes  itself?  Have  we  not  sometimes  entertained 
sentiments  positively  malignant  towards  those  who  have 
wounded  our  vanity  or  injured  our  interests,  secretly 
wishing  them  ill,  or  not  heartily  wishing  them  happiness? 
If  so,  we  need  only  consult  our  own  experience  to  ascer- 
tain that  such  feelings  are  both  sinful  and  foolish ;  they 
oifend  our  Maker,  and  render  us  wretched. 

We  know  a  happy  man  ;  one  who  in  the  midst  of  the 
vexations  and  crosses  of  this  changing  world,  is  always 
happy.  Meet  him  anywhere,  and  at  any  time,  his 
features  beam  with  pleasure.  Children  run  to  meet 
him,  and  contend  for  the  honour  of  touching  his  hand, 
or  laying  hold  of  the  skirt  of  his  coat,  as  he  passes  by, 
so  cheerful  and  benevolent  does  he  always  look.  In  his 
own  house  he  seems  to  reign  absolute,  and  yet  he  never 
uses  any  weapon  more  powerful  than  a  kind  word. 
Everybody  who  knows  him  is  aware,  that,  in  point  of 
intelligence,  ay,  and  in  physical  prowess,  too — for  we 
know  few  men  who  can  boast  a  more  athletic  frame — ho 
is  strong  as  a  lion,  yet  in  his  demeanour  he  is  gentle  as 
a  lamb.  His  wife  is  not  of  the  most  amiable  temper,  his 
children  are  not  the  most  docile,  his  business  brings  him 
into  contact  with  men  of  various  dispositions ;  but  he  con- 
quers all  with  the  same  weapons.  What  a  contrast  have 
we  often  thought  he  presents  to  some  whose  physiognomy 


MANLY    GENTLENESS.  138 

looks  like  a  piece  of  harsh  handwriting,  in  \\hich  we  can 
decipher  nothing  hut  self,  self,  self;  who  seem,  hoth  at 
home  and  ahroad,  to  be  always  on  the  watch  against 
any  infringement  of  their  dignity.  Poor  men  !  their 
dignity  can  be  of  little  value  if  it  requires  so  much  care 
in  order  to  be  maintained.  True  manliness  need  take 
but  little  pains  to  procure  respectful  recognition.  If  it 
is  genuine,  others  will  see  it,  and  respect  it.  The  lion 
will  always  be  acknowledged  as  the  king  of  the  beasts ; 
but  the  ass,  though  clothed  in  the  lion's  skin,  may  bray 
loudly  and  perseveringly  indeed,  but  he  will  never  keep 
the  forest  in  awe. 

From  some  experience  in  the  homes  of  working-men, 
and  other  homes  too,  we  are  led  tt>  vhink  that  much  of 
the  harsh  and  discordant  feeling  whicu  too  often  prevails 
there  may  be  ascribed  to  a  false  conception  of  what  is 
truly  great.  It  is  a  very  erroneous  impression  that 
despotism  is  manly.  For  our  part  we  believe  that  des- 
potism is  inhuman,  satanic,  and  that  wherever  it  is 
found — as  much  in  the  bosom  of  a  family,  as  on  the 
throne  of  a  kingdom.  We  cannot  bring  ourselves  to 
tolerate  the  inconsistency  with  which  some  men  will 
inveigh  against  some  absolute  sovereign,  and  straight 
way  enact  the  pettiest  airs  of  absolutism  in  their  little 
empire  at  home.  We  have  no  privaU  intimacy  with 
"the  autocrat  of  all  the  Russias,"  and  may,  with  all 
humility,  avow  that  we  do  not  desire  to  have  any ;  but 
this  we  believe,  that  out  of  the  thousands  who  call  him  a 
tyrant,  it  would  be  no  difficult  matter  to  pick  scores  who 
are  as  bad,  if  not  worse.  Let  us  remember  that  it  is  not 
a  great  empire  which  constitutes  a  great  tyrant.  Tyranny 


134  MANLY   GENTLENESS. 

must  bo  measured  by  the  strength  of  those  imperious 
and  malignant  passions  from  which  it  flows,  and  carry- 
ing this  rule  along  with  us,  it  would  not  surprise  us,  if 
we  found  the  greatest  tyrant  in  the  world  in  some  small 
cottage,  with  none  to  oppress  but  a  few  unoffending 
children,  and  a  helpless  woman.  0 !  when  shall  we  be 
just ! — when  shall  we  cease  to  prate  about  wrongs 
inflicted  by  others,  and  magnified  by  being  beheld 
through  the  haze  of  distance,  and  seek  to  redress  those 
which  lie  at  our  own  doors,  and  to  redress  which  we 
shall  only  have  to  prevail  upon  ourselves  to  be  just  and 
gentle  !  Arbitrary  power  is  always  associated  either 
with  cruelty,  or  conscious  weakness.  True  greatness  is 
above  the  petty  arts  of  tyranny.  Sometimes  much 
domestic  suffering  may  arise  from  a  cause  which  ia 
easily  confounded  with  a  tyrannical  disposition — we 
refer  to  an  exaggerated  sense  of  justice.  This"  is  the 
abuse  of  a  right  feeling,  and  requires  to  be  kept  in 
vigilant  check.  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  be  one-sided 
in  judging  of  the  actions  of  others.  How  agreeable  the 
task  of  applying  the  line  and  plummet !  How  quiet  and 
complete  the  assumption  of  our  own  superior  excellence 
which  we  make  in  doing  it !  But  if  the  task  is  in  some 
respects  easy,  it  is  most  difficult  if  we  take  into  account 
the  necessity  of  being  just  in  our  decisions.  In  domestic 
life  especially,  in  which  so  much  depends  on  circum- 
stances, and  the  highest  questions  often  relate  to  mere 
matters  of  expediency,  how  easy  it  is  to  be  "always 
finding  fault,"  if  we  neglect  to  take  notice  of  explana- 
tory and  extenuating  circumstances  !  Anybody  with  a 
tongue  and  a  most  moderate  complement  of  brains  can 


MANLY   GENTLENESS.  135 

call  a  thing  stupid,  foolish,  ill-advised,  and  so  forth ; 
though  it  might  require  a  larger  amount  of  wisdom  than 
the  judges  possessed  to  have  done  the  thing  better.  But 
what  do  we  want  with  captious  judges  in  the  bosom  of  a 
family  ?  The  scales  of  household  polity  are  the  scales 
of  love,  and  he  who  holds  them  should  be  a  sympathizing 
friend;  ever  ready  to  make  allowance  for  failures,  inge- 
nious in  contriving  apologies,  more  lavish  of  counsels 
than  rebukes,  and  less  anxious  to  overwhelm  a  person 
with  a  sense  of  deficiency  than  to  awaken  in  the  bosom, 
a  conscious  power  of  doing  better.  One  thing  is  certain  : 
if  any  member  of  a  family  conceives  it  his  duty  to  sit 
continually  in  the  censor's  chair,  and  weigh  in  the  scales 
of  justice  all  that  happens  in  the  domestic  commonwealth, 
domestic  happiness  is  out  of  the  question.  It  is  manly 
to  extenuate  and  forgive,  but  a  crabbed  and  censorious 
spirit  is  contemptible. 

There  is  much  more  misery  thrown  into  the  cup  of  life 
by  domestic  unkindness  than  we  might  at  first  suppose. 
In  thinking  of  the  evils  endured  by  society  from  male- 
volent passions  of  individuals,  we  are  apt  to  enumerate 
only  the  more  dreadful  instances  of  crime :  but  what  are 
the  few  murders  which  unhappily  pollute  the  soil  of  this 
Christian  land — what,  we  ask,  is  the  suffering  they  occa- 
sion, what  their  demoralizing  tendency — when  compared 
with  the  daily  effusions  of  ill-humour  which  sadden,  may 
we  not  fear,  many  thousand  homes  ?  We  believe  that 
an  incalculably  greater  number  are  hurried  to  the  grave 
by  habitual  unkindness  than  by  sudden  violence ;  the 
slow  poison  of  churlishness  and  neglect,  is  of  all  poisona 
the  most  destructive.  If  this  is  true,  we  want  a  new 


136  MANLY   GENTLE-NESS. 

definition  for  the  most  flagrant  of  all  crimes :  a  defini- 
tion which  shall  leave  out  the  element  of  time,  and  call 
these  actions  the  same — equally  hateful,  equally  diaboli- 
cal, equally  censured  by  the  righteous  government  of 
Heaven — which  proceed  from  the  same  motives,  and 
lead  to  the  same  result,  whether  they  be  done  in  a 
moment,  or  spread  out  through  a  series  of  years.  Habi- 
tual unkindness  is  demoralizing  as  well  as  cruel.  When- 
ever it  fails  to  break  the  heart,  it  hardens  it.  To  take 
a  familiar  illustration  :  a  wife  who  is  never  addressed  by 
her  husband  in  tones  of  kindness,  must  cease  to  love 
him  if  she  wishes  to  be  happy.  It  is  her  only  alterna- 
tive. Thanks  to  the  nobility  of  our  nature,  she  does 
not  always  take  it.  No ;  for  years  she  battles  with 
cruelty,  and  still  presses  with  affection  the  hand  which 
smites  her,  but  it  is  fearfully  at  her  own  expense.  Such 
endurance  preys  upon  her  health,  and  hastens  her  exit 
to  the  asylum  of  the  grave.  If  this  is  to  be  avoided,  she 
must  learn  to  forget,  what  woman  should  never  be 
tempted  to  forget,  the  vows,  the  self-renunciating  devoted 
ness  of  impassioned  youth ;  she  must  learn  to  oppose 
indifference,  to  neglect  and  repel  him  with  a  heart  as 
cold  as  his  own.  But  what  a  tragedy  lies  involved  in  a 
career  like  this  !  We  gaze  on  something  infinitely  more 
terrible  than  murder ;  we  see  our  nature  abandoned  to 
the  mercy  of  malignant  passions,  an  1  the  sacred  suscep- 
tibilities which  were  intended  to  fertilize  with  the  waters 
of  charity  the  pathway  of  life,  sending  forth  streams  of 
bitterest  gall.  A  catalogue  of  such  cases,  faithfully  com- 
piled, would  eclipse,  in  turpitude  and  horror,  all  the 


MANLY   GENTLENESS.  137 

calendars  of  crime  that  have  ever  sickened  the  attention 
of  the  world. 

The  obligations  of  gentleness  and  kindness  are  exten- 
sive as  the  claims  to  manliness ;  these  three  qualities 
must  go  together.  There  are  some  cases,  however,  in 
which  such  obligations  are  of  special  force.  Perhaps  a 
] recept  here  will  be  presented  most  appropriately  under 
the  guise  of  an  example.  We  have  now  before  our 
mind's  eye  a  couple,  whose  marriage  tie  was,  a  few 
months  since,  severed  by  death.  The  husband  was  a 
strong,  hale,  robust  sort  of  a  man,  who  probably  never 
knew  a  day's  illness  in  the  course  of  his  life,  and  whose, 
sympathy  on  behalf  of  weakness  or  suffering  in  others  it 
was  exceedingly  difficult  to  evoke  ;  while  his  partner  was 
the  very  reverse,  by  constitution  weak  and  ailing,  but 
withal  a  woman  of  whom  any  man  might  and  ought  to 
have  been  proud.  Her  elegant  form,  her  fair  trans- 
parent skin,  the  classical  contour  of  her  refined  and 
expressive  face,  might  have  led  a  Canova  to  have  selected 
her  as  a  model  of  feminine  beauty.  But  alas  !  she  wag 
•weak ;  she  could  not  work  like  other  women  ;  her  hus- 
band could  not  boast  among  his  shopmates  how  much  she 
contributed  to  the  maintenance  of  the  family,  and  how 
largely  she  could  afford  to  dispense  with  the  fruit  of  his 
labours.  Indeed,  with  a  noble  infant  in  her  bosom,  and 
the  cares  of  a  household  resting  entirely  upon  her,  she 
required  help  herself,  and  at  least  she  needed,  what  no 
wife  can  dispense  with,  but  she  least  of  all — sympathy, 
forbearance,  and  all  those  tranquilizing  virtues  which 
flow  from  a  heart  of  kindness.  She  least  of  all  could 
bear  a  harsh  look  ;  to  be  treated  daily  witb  eold,  dig 


138  MANLY   GENTLENESS. 

approving  reserve,  a  petulant  dissatisfaction  could  not  but 
be  death  to  her.  We  will  not  say  it  was — enough  that 
she  is  dead.  The  lily  bent  before  the  storm,  and  at  last 
was  crushed  by  it.  We  ask  but  one  question,  in  order 
to  point  the  moral : — In  the  circumstances  we  have 
delineated,  what  course  of  treatment  was  most  consonant 
with  a  manly  spirit ;  that  which  was  actually  pursued,  or 
some  other  which  the  reader  can  suggest  ? 

Yes.  to  love  is  to  be  happy  and  to  make  happy,  and 
to  love  is  the  very  spirit  of  true  manliness.  We  speak  not 
of  exaggerated  passion  and  false  sentiment ;  we  speak 
not  of  those  bewildering,  indescribable  feelings,  which 
under  that  name,  often  monopolize  for  a  time  the  guid- 
ance of  the  youthful  heart ;  but  we  speak  of  that  pure 
emotion  which  is  benevolence  intensified,  and  which,  when 
blended  with  intelligence,  can  throw  the  light  of  joyous- 
ness  around  the  manifold  relations  of  life.  Coarseness, 
rudeness,  tyranny,  are  so  many  forms  of  brute  power ; 
so  many  manifestations  of  what  it  is  man's  peculiar  glory 
not  to  be ;  but  kindness  and  gentleness  can  never  cease 
to  be  MANLY. 

Count  not  the  days  that  have  lightly  flown, 

The  years  that  were  vainly  spent; 
Nor  speak  of  the  hours  thou  must  blush  to  own, 
When  thy  spirit  stands  before  the  Throne, 

To  account  for  the  talents  lent. 

But  number  the  hours  redeemed  from  sin, 
The  moments  employed  for  Heaven  ;— 
Oh  few  and  evil  thy  days  have  been, 
Thy  life,  a  toilsome  but  worthless  scene, 
For  a  nobler  purpose  given. 


SILENT   INFLUENCE.  139 

Will  the  shade  go  back  on  the  dial  plate? 

Will  thy  sun  stand  still  on  his  way  ? 
Both  hasten  on  ;  and  thy  spirit's  fate 
Rests  on  the  point  of  life's  little  date : — 

Then  live  while  'tis  called  to-day. 

Life's  waning  hours,  like  the  Sibyl's  page, 

As  they  lessen,  in  value  rise ; 
Oh  rouse  thee  and  live !  nor  deem  that  man's  age 
Stands  on  the  length  of  his  pilgrimage, 

But  in  days  that  are  truly  wise. 


SILENT  INFLUENCE. 

"  How  finely  she  looks!"  said  Margaret  "VVinne,  as  a 
lady  swept  by  them  in  the  crowd ;  "I  do  not  see  that 
time  wears  upon  her  beauty  at  all." 

"  What,  Bell  Walters  !"  exclaimed  her  companion. 
"  Are  you  one  of  those  who  think  her  such  a  beauty  ?" 

"  I  think  her  a  very  fine-looking  woman,  certainly," 
returned  Mrs.  Winne;  "  and,  what  is  more,  I  think  her 
a  very  fine  woman." 

"  Indeed  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hall ;  "I  thought  you  were 
no  friends  ?" 

"No,"  replied  the  first  speaker;  "but  that  does  not 
make  us  enemies.' 

"  But  I  tell  you  she  positively  dislikes  you,  Marga- 
ret," said  Mrs.  Hall.  "  It  is  only  a  few  days  since  1 
knew  of  her  saying  that  you  were  a  bold,  impudent  wo- 
man, and  she  did  not  like  you  at  all." 


140  811.ENT    INFLUENCE. 

"  That  is  bad."  said  Margaret,  with  a  smite;  '  for  I 
must  confess  that  I  like  her." 

"  Well,"  said  her  companion,  "  I  am  sure  I  could 
never  like  any  one  who  made  such  unkind  speeches  about 
me." 

"  I  presume  she  said  no  more  than  she  thought,"  said 
Margaret,  quietly. 

"  Well,  so  much  the  worse !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hall,  in 
Burprise.  "  I  hope  you  do  not  think  that  excuses  the 
matter  at  all  ?" 

"  Certainly,  I  do.  I  presume  she  has  some  reason  for 
thinking  as  she  does ;  and,  if  so,  it  was  very  natural  she 
should  express  her  opinion." 

"  Well,  you  are  very  cool  and  candid  about  it,  I  must 
say.  What  reason  have  you  given  her,  pray,  for  think- 
ing you  were  bold  and  impudent  ?" 

"  None,  that  I  am  aware  of,"  replied  Mrs.  Winne, 
"  but  I  presume  she  thinks  I  have.  I  always  claim  hei 
acquaintance,  when  we  meet,  and  I  have  no  doubt  she 
would  much  rather  I  would  let  it  drop." 

"  Why  don't  you,  then  ?  I  never  knew  her,  and  nevei 
had  any  desire  for  her  acquaintance.  She  was  no  bet- 
ter than  you  when  you  were  girls,  and  I  don't  think  hei 
present  good  fortune  need  make  her  so  very  scornful." 

"  I  do  not  think  she  exhibits  any  more  haughtinesi 
than  most  people  would  under  the  same  circumstances 
J$"me  would  have  dropped  the  acquaintance  at  once, 
wuhout  waiting  for  me  to  do  it.  Her  social  position  is 
higher  than  mine,  and  it  annoys  her  to  have  me  meet  hei 
as  an  equal,  just  I  used  to  do." 

"  You  do  it  to  annoy  her,  then  ?" 


SILENT    INFLUENCE.  141 

"Not  by  any  means.  I  would  much  rather  she  would 
feel,  as  1  do,  that  the  difference  between  us  is  merely 
conventional,  and  might  bear  to  be  forgotten  on  the  few 
occasions  when  accident  throws  us  together.  But  she 
does  not,  and  I  presume  it  is  natural.  I  do  not  know 
how  my  head  might  be  turned,  if  I  had  climbed  up  in 
the  world  as  rapidly  as  she  has  done.  As  it  is,  however, 
I  admire  her  too  much  to  drop  her  acquaintance  just  yet, 
as  long  as  she  leaves  it  to  me." 

"  Really,  Margaret,  I  should  have  supposed  you  had 
too  much  spirit  to  intrude  yourself  upon  a  person  that 
you  knew  wished  to  shake  you  off ;  and  I  do  not  see  how 
you  can  admire  one  that  you  know  to  be  so  proud." 

"  I  do  not  admire  her  on  account  of  her  pride,  cer- 
tainly, though  it  is  a  quality  that  sits  very  gracefully 
upon  her,"  said  Margaret  Winne ;  and  she  introduced 
another  topic  of  conversation,  for  she  did  not  hope  to 
make  her  companion  understand  the  motives  that  influ- 
enced her. 

"Bold  and  impudent!"  said  Margaret,  to  herself,  as 
she  sat  alone,  in  her  own  apartment.  "  I  knew  she 
thought  it.  for  I  have  seen  it  in  her  looks  ;  but  she  al- 
ways treats  me  well  externally,  and  I  hardly  thought  she 
•would  say  it.  I  know  she  was  vexed  with  herself  for 
epeaking  to  me,  one  day,  when  she  was  in  the  midst  of 
a  circle  of  her  fashionable  acquaintances.  I  was  par- 
ticularly ill-dressed,  and  I  noticed  that  they  stared  at 
we ;  but  I  had  no  intention,  then,  of  throwing  myself 
in  her  way.  Well,"  she  continued,  musingly,  "I  am 
not  to  be  foiled  with  one  rebuff.  I  know  her  better  than 


142  SILENT   INFLUENCE. 

she  knows  me,  for  the  busy  world  has  canvassed  her  life, 
while  they  have  never  meddled  with  my  own :  and  I 
think  there  are  points  of  contact  enough  between  us  for 
us  to  understand  each  other,  if  we  once  found  an  oppor- 
tunity. She  stands  in  a  position  which  I  shall  never 
occupy,  and  she  has  more  power  and  strength  than  I ; 
else  sta  had  never  stood  where  she  does,  for  she  has 
shaped  her  fortunes  by  her  own  unaided  will.  Her  face 
was  not  her  fortune,  as  most  people  suppose,  but  her 
mind.  She  has  accomplished  whatever  she  has  under- 
taken, and  she  can  accomplish  much  more,  for  her  re- 
sources are  far  from  being  developed.  Those  around  her 
may  remember  yet  that  she  was  not  always  on  a  foot- 
ing with  them;  but  they  will  not  do  so  long.  She  will 
be  their  leader,  for  she  was  born  to  rule.  Yes ;  and  sho 
queens  it  most  proudly  among  them.  It  were  a  pity  to 
lose  sight  of  her  stately,  graceful  dignity.  I  regard  her 
very  much  as  I  would  some  beautiful  exotic,  and  her 
opinion  of  me  affects  me  about  as  much  as  if  she  were 
the  flower,  and  no*  <,*ie  mortal.  And  yet  I  can  never 
see  her  without  wishing  that  the  influence  she  exerts 
might  be  turned  into  a  better  channel.  She  has  much 
of  good  about  her,  and  I  think  that  it  needs  but  a  few 
hints  to  make  life  and  its  responsibilities  appear  to  her 
as  they  do  to  me.  I  have  a  message  for  her  ear,  but 
she  must  not  know  that  it  was  intended  for  her.  She 
has  too  much  pride  of  place  to  receive  it  from  me,  and 
too  much  self-confidence  to  listen  knowingly  to  the  su^- 

t?    ti 

gestions  of  any  other  mind  than  her  own.  Therefore, 
I  will  seek  the  society  of  Isabel  Walters  whenever  I  can, 
without  appearing  intrusive,  until  she  thinks  me  worthy 


SILENT   INFLUENCE.  148 

her  notice,  or  drops  me  altogether.  My  talent  lies  "n 
thinking,  but  she  has  all  the  life  and  energy  I  lack,  ai.d 
would  make  an  excellent  actor  to  my  thought,  and  would 
need  no  mentor  when  her  attention  was  once  aroused. 
My  usefulness  must  lie  in  an  humble  sphere,  but  hers — 
she  can  carry  it  wherever  she  will.  It  will  be  enough 
for  ray  single  life  to  accomplish,  if,  beyond  the  careful 
training  of  my  own  family,  I  can  incite  her  to  a  deve- 
lopment of  her  powers  of  usefulness.  People  will  listen 
to  her  who  will  pay  no  attention  to  me ;  and,  besides, 
she  has  the  time  and  means  to  spare,  which  I  have  not." 

"  Everywhere,  in  Europe,  they  were  talking  of  you, 
Mrs.  Walters,"  said  a  lady,  who  had  spent  many  years 
abroad,  "  and  adopting  your  plans  for  vagrant  and  in- 
dustrial schools,  and  for  the  management  of  hospitals 
and  asylums.  I  have  seen  your  name  in  the  memorials 
laid  before  government  in  various  foreign  countries. 
You  have  certainly  achieved  a  world-wide  reputation. 
Do  tell  me  how  your  attention  came  first  to  be  turned  to 
that  sort  of  thing  ?  I  supposed  you  were  one  of  our 
fashionable  women,  who  sought  simply  to  know  how 
much  care  and  responsibility  they  could  lawfully  avoid, 
and  how  high  a  social  station  it  was  possible  to  attain. 
I  am  sure  something  must  have  happened  to  turn  your 
life  into  so  different  a  channel." 

"Nothing  in  particular,  I  assure  you,"  returned  Mrs. 
Walters.  "  I  came  gradually  to  perceive  the  necessity 
there  was  that  some  one  should  take  personal  and  deci- 
si»e  action  in  those  things  that  it  was  s-i  customary  to 
neglect.  Fond  as  men  are  of  money,  it  was  far  easier 


144  SILENT   INFLUENCE 

to  reach  their  purses  than  their  minds.  Our  public  cha- 
rities were  quite  well  endowed,  but  no  one  gave  them 
that  attention  that  they  needed,  and  thus  evils  had  crept 
in  that  were  of  the  highest  importance.  My  attention 
was  attracted  to  it  in  my  own  vicinity  at  first ;  and  others 
Baw  it  as  well  as  I,  but  it  was  so  much  of  everybody's 
business  that  everybody  let  it  alone.  I  followed  the  ex- 
ample for  awhile,  but  it  seemed  as  much  my  duty  to  act 
as  that  of  any  other  person ;  and  though  it  is  little  I 
have  done,  I  think  that,  in  that  little,  I  have  filled  the 
place  designed  for  me  by  Providence." 

"  Well,  really,  Mrs.  Walters,  you  were  one  of  the  last 
persons  I  should  have  imagined  to  be  nicely  balancing  a 
point  of  duty,  or  searching  out  the  place  designed  for 
them  by  Providence.  I  must  confess  myself  at  fault  in 
my  judgment  of  character  for  once." 

"  Indeed,  madam,"  replied  Mrs.  Walters,  "  I  have  no 
doubt  you  judged  me  very  correctly  at  the  time  you  knew 
me.  My  first  ideas  of  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of 
life  were  aroused  by  Margaret  Winne ;  and  I  recollect 
that  my  intimacy  with  her  commenced  after  you  left  the 
country." 

"  Margaret  Winne  ?  Who  was  she  ?  Not  the  wife  of 
that  little  Dr.  Winne  we  used  to  hear  of  occasionally  ? 
They  attended  the  same  church  with  us,  I  believe  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  she  was  the  one.  We  grew  up  together,  and 
were  familiar  with  each  other's  faces  from  childhood ; 
but  this  was  about  all.  She  was  always  in  humble  cir- 
cumstances, as  I  had  myself  been  in  early  life ;  and. 
after  my  marriage,  I  used  positively  to  dislike  her,  and 
to  dread  meeting  her,  for  she  was  the  only  one  of  my 


SILENT   INFLUENCE.  \  15 

former  acquaintances  who  met  me  on  the  same  terms  as 
she  had  always  djne.  I  thought  she  wished  to  remind 
me  that  we  were  once  equals  in  station  ;  but  I  learned, 
vhen  I  came  to  know  her  well,  how  far  she  was  above  so 
mean  a  thought.  I  hardly  know  how  I  came  first  to 
appreciate  her,  but  we  were  occasionally  thrown  in  con- 
tact, and  her  sentiments  were  so  beautiful — so  much 
above  the  common  stamp — that  I  could  not  fail  to  be 
attracted  by  her.  She  was  a  noble  woman.  The  world 
knows  few  like  her.  So  modest  and  retiring — with  an 
earnest  desire  to  do  all  the  good  in  the  world  of  which 
she  was  capable,  but  with  no  ambition  to  shine.  Well 
fitted  as  she  was,  to  be  an  ornament  in  any  station  of 
society,  she  seemed  perfectly  content  to  be  the  idol  of 
her  own  family,  and  known  to  few  besides.  There  were 
few  subjects  on  which  she  had  not  thought,  and  her  clear 
perceptions  went  at  once  to  the  bottom  of  a  subject,  so 
that  she  solved  simply  many  a  question  on  which  astute 
philosophers  had  found  themselves  at  fault.  I  came  at 
last  to  regard  her  opinion  almost  as  an  oracle.  I  have 
often  thought,  since  her  death,  that  it  was  her  object  to 
turn  my  life  into  that  channel  to  which  it  has  since  been 
devoted,  but  I  do  not  know.  I  had  never  thought  of  the 
work  that  has  since  occupied  me  at  the  time  of  her 
death,  but  I  can  see  now  how  cautiously  and  gradually 
she  led  me  among  the  poor,  and  taught  me  to  sympathize 
with  their  sufferings,  and  gave  me,  little  by  little,  a  clue 
to  the  evils  that  had  sprung  up  in  the  management  of 
our  public  charities.  She  was  called  from  her  family  iu 
the  prime  of  life,  but  they  who  come  after  her  do  assu- 
redly rise  up  and  call  her  blessed.  She  has  left  a  fine 

10 


148  SILENT   INFLUENCE. 

family,  who  will  not  soon  forget  the  instructions  of  « 
mother." 

"Ah!  yes,  there  it  is.  Mrs.  Walters.  A  woman's 
sphere,  after  all,  is  at  home.  One  may  do  a  great  deai 
of  good  in  public,  no  doubt,  as  you  have  done ;  but  don 't 
you  think  that,  while  you  have  devoted  yourself  so 
untiringly  to  other  affairs,  you  have  been  obliged  to 
neglect  your  own  family,  in  order  to  gain  time  for  this  ? 
One  cannot  live  two  lives  at  once,  you  know." 

"  No,  madam,  certainly  we  cannot  live  two  lives  at 
once,  but  we  can  glean  a  much  larger  harvest  from  the 
one  which  is  bestowed  upon  us  than  we  are  accustomed 
to  think.  I  do  not,  by  any  means,  think  that  I  have 
ever  neglected  my  own  family  in  the  performance  of 
other  duties,  and  I  trust  my  children  are  proving,  by 
their  hearty  co-operation  with  me,  that  I  am  not  mistaken. 
Our  first  duty,  certainly,  is  at  home,  and  I  determined, 
at  the  outset,  that  nothing  should  call  me  from  the  per- 
formance of  this  first  charge.  I  do  not  think  anything 
can  excuse  a  mother  from  devoting  a  large  portion  of 
her  life  in  personal  attention  to  the  children  God  has 
given  her.  But  I  can  assure  you  that,  to  those  things 
which  I  have  done  of  which  the  world  could  take  cogni- 
sance, I  have  given  far  less  time  than  I  used  once  to 
devote  to  dress  and  amusement.  I  found,  by  systema- 
tizing everything,  that  my  time  was  more  than  doubled ; 
and,  certainly,  I  was  far  better  fitted  to  attend  properly 
to  my  own  family,  when  my  eyes  were  opened  to  the 
responsibilities  of  life,  than  when  my  thoughts  wera 
wholly  occupied  by  fashion  and  display." 


ANTIDOTE  FOR  MELANCHOLY. 

**  An,  fiiend  K ,  good-morning  to  you ;  I'm  really 

happy  to  see  you  looking  so  cheerful.  Pray,  to  what 
unusual  circumstance  may  we  be  indebted  for  this  happy, 
smiling  face  of  yours,  this  morning?"  (Our  friend 

K had  been,  unfortunately,  of  a  very  desponding 

and  somewhat  of  a  choleric  turn  of  mind,  previously.) 

"  Really,  is  the  change  so  perceptible,  then  ?  Well, 
my  dear  sir,  you  shall  have  the  secret ;  for,  happy  as  I 
appear — and  be  assured,  my  appearances  are  by  no 
means  deceptive,  for  I  never  felt  more  happy  in  my  life 
— it  will  still  give  me  pleasure  to  inform  you,  and  won't 
take  long,  either.  It  is  simply  this ;  I  have  made  a 
whole  family  happy !" 

"  Indeed  !  Why,  you  have  discovered  a  truly  valuable 
recipe  for  blues,  then,  which  may  be  used  ad  libitum^ 
eh,  K ?" 

"  You  may  well  say  that.  But,  really,  my  friend,  1 
feel  no  little  mortification  at  not  making  so  simple  and 
valuable  a  discovery  at  an  earlier  period  of  my  life. 

Heaven  knows,"  continued  K ,  "I  have  looked  for 

contentment  everywhere  else.  First,  I  sought  for  wealth 
in  the  gold  mines  of  California,  thinking  that  was  the 
true  source  of  all  earthly  joys ;  but  after  obtaining  it,  I 
found  myself  with  such  a  multiplicity  of  cares  and  anxi- 
eties, that  I  was  really  more  unhappy  than  ever.  I  then 
sought  for  pleasure  in  travelling.  This  answered  some- 
what the  purpose  of  dissipating  cares,  &c.,  so  long  as  it 


148  ANTIDOTE   FOR    MELANCHOLY. 

lasted ;  but,  dear  me,  it  gave  no  permanent  satisfaction. 
After  seeing  the  whole  world,  I  was  as  badly  off  as  Alex- 
ander the  Great.  He  cried  for  another  world  to  conquer, 
and  I  cried  for  another  world  to  see." 

The  case  of  our  friend,  I  imagine,  differs  not  materi- 
ally from  that  of  a  host  of  other  seekers  of  contentment 
in  this  productive  world.  Like  "  blind  leaders  of  the 
blind,"  our  invariable  fate  is. to  go  astray  in  the  univer- 
sal race  for  happiness.  How  common  is  it,  after  seeking 
for  it  in  every  place  but  the  right  one,  for  the  selfish 
man  to  lay  the  whole  blame  upon  this  fine  world — as  if 
anybody  was  to  blame  but  himself.  Even  some  pro- 
fessors of  religion  are  too  apt  to  libel  the  world.  "  Well, 
this  is  a  troublesome  world,  to  make  the  best  of  it,"  is 
not  an  uncommon  expression ;  neither  is  it  a  truthful 
one.  "  Troubles,  disappointments,  losses,  crosses,  sick- 
ness, and  death,  make  up  the  sum  and  substance  of  our 
existence  here,"  add  they,  with  tremendous  emphasis,  as 
if  they  had  no  hand  in  producing  the  sad  catalogue. 
The  trouble  is,  we  set  too  high  a  value  on  our  own  me- 
rits ;  we  imagine  ourselves  deserving  of  great  favours 
and  privileges,  while  we  are  doing  nothing  to  merit  them. 
In  this  respect,  we  are  not  altogether  unlike  the  young 
man  in  the  parable,  who,  by-the-by,  was  also  a  professor 
— he  professed  very  loudly  of  having  done  all  those 
good  things  "from  his  youth  up."  But  when  the  com- 
mand came,  "go  sell  all  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor," 
£c.,  it  soon  took  the  conceit  out  of  him. 

In  this  connexion,  there  are  two  or  three  seemingly 
•aiportant  considerations,  which  I  feel  some  delicacy  in 
inching  upon  here.  However,  in  the  kindest  possible 


ANTIDOTE    FOR    MELAiNCHOLY.  149 

«pmt,  I  would  merely  remark,  that  there  is  a  very  large 
amount  of  wealth  in  the  Church — by  this  I  include  its 
wealthy  members,  of  course;  and  refer  to  no  particular 
denomination ;  by  Church,  I  mean  all  Christian  deno- 
minations. Now,  in  connexion  with  this  fact,  such  a 
question  as  this  arises  in  my  mind — and  I  put  it,  not 
for  the  purpose  of  fault-finding,  for  I  don't  know  that  1 
have  a  right  view  of  the  matter,  but  merely  for  the  con- 
sideration of  those  who  are  fond  of  hoarding  up  their 
earthly  gains,  viz. :  Suppose  the  modern  Church  was 
composed  of  such  professors  as  the  self-denying  disciples 
of  our  Saviour, — with  their  piety,  simplicity,  and  this 
wealth ;  what,  think  you,  would  be  the  consequence  ? 
Now  I  do  not  intend  to  throw  out  any  such  flings  as, 
"comparisons  are  odious" — "this  is  the  modern  Chris- 
tian age" — "the  age  of  Christian  privileges,"  and  all 
that  sort  of  nonsense.  Still,  I  am  rather  inclined  to  the 
opinion,  that  if  we  were  all — in  and  out  of  the  Church 
— disposed  to  live  up  to,  or  carry  out  what  we  professedly 
know  to  be  right,  it  would  be  almost  as  difficult  to  find 
real  trouble,  as  it  is  now  to  find  real  happiness. 

The  sources  of  contentment  and  discontentment  are 
discoverable,  therefore,  without  going  into  a  metaphysi- 
cal examination  of  the  subject.  Just  in  proportion  as 
we  happen  to  discharge,  or  neglect  known  duties,  are 
we,  according  to  my  view,  happy  or  miserable  on  earth. 

Philosophy  tells  us  that  our  happiness  and  well-being 
depends  upon  a  conformity  to  certain  unalterable  laws 
— moral,  physical,  and  organic — which  act  upon  the  in- 
tellectual, moral,  and  material  universe,  of  which  man  is 
a  part,  and  which  determine,  or  regulate  the  growth, 


150  ANTIDOTE    FOR    MELANCHOLY. 

happiness,  and  well-being  of  all  organic  beings.  These 
views,  when  reduced  to  their  simple  meaning,  amount  to 
the  same  thing,  call  it  by  what  name  we  will.  Duties, 
of  course,  imply  legal  or  moral  obligations,  which  we  are 
certainly  legally  or  morally  bound  to  pay,  perform,  or 
discharge.  And  certain  it  is,  there  is  no  getting  over 
them — they  are  as  irresistible  as  Divine  power,  as  uni- 
versal as  Divine  presence,  as  permanent  as  Divine  exist- 
ence, and  no  art  nor  cunning  of  man  can  disconnect 
unhappiness  from  transgressing  them.  How  necessary 
to  our  happiness,  then,  is  it,  not  only  to  know,  but  to 
perform  our  whole  duty  ? 

One  of  the  great  duties  of  man  in  this  life,  and,  per- 
haps, the  most  neglected,  is  that  of  doing  good,  or  bene- 
fiting one  another.  That  doing  good  is  clearly  a  duty 
devolving  upon  man,  there  can  be  no  question.  The 
benevolent  Creator,  in  placing  man  in  the  world,  endowed 
him  with  mental  and  physical  energies,  which  clearly 
denote  that  he  is  to  be  active  in  his  day  and  generation. 

Active  in  what  ?  Certainly  not  in  mischief,  for  that 
•would  not  be  consistent  with  Divine  goodness.  Neither 
should  we  suppose  that  we  are  here  for  our  own  sakes 
simply.  Such  an  idea  would  be  presumptuous.  For 
what  purpose,  then,  was  man  endowed  with  all  these  fa- 
cilities  of  mind  and  body,  but  to  do  good  and  glorify  his 
Maker  ?  True  philosophy  teaches  that  benevolence  waa 
not  only  the  design  of  the  Creator  in  all  His  works,  but 
the  fruits  to  be  expected  from  them.  The  whole  infinite 
contrivances  of  everything  above,  around,  and  within 
us,  are  directed  to  certain  benevolent  issues,  and  all  the 
laws  of  nature  are  in  perfect  harmony  with  this  idea, 


ANTIDOTE   FOR    MELANCHOLY.  151 

That  such  is  the  design  of  man  may  also  be  inferred 
from  the  happiness  which  attends  every  good  action, 
and  the  misery  of  discontentment  which  attends  those 
who  not  only  do  wrong,  but  are  useless  to  themselvea 

and  to  society.  Friend  K 's  case,  above  quoted,  ia 

a  fair  illustration  of  this  truth. 

Now,  then,  if  it  is  our  duty  to  do  all  the  good  we  can, 
and  I  think  this  will  be  admitted,  particularly  by  the 
Christian,  and  this  be  measured  by  our  means  and  op- 
portunity, then  there  are  many  whom  Providence  has 
blessed  with  the  means  and  opportunity  of  doing  a  very 
great  amount  of  good.  And  if  it  be  true,  as  it  mani- 
festly is,  that  "it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  receive." 
then  has  Providence  also  blessed  them  with  very  great 
privileges.  The  privilege  of  giving  liberally,  and  thus 
obtaining  for  themselves  the  greater  blessing,  which  is 
the  result  of  every  benevolent  action,  the  simple  satis- 
faction with  ourselves  which  follows  a  good  act,  or  con-> 
sciousness  of  having  done  our  duty  in  relieving  a  fellow- 
creature,  are  blessings  indeed,  which  none  but  the  good 
or  benevolent  can  realize.  Such  kind  spirits  are  never 
cast  down.  Their  hearts  always  light  and  cheerful — 
rendered  so  by  their  many  kind  offices, — they  can  always 
enjoy  their  neighbours,  rich  or  poor,  high  or  low,  and 
love  them  too ;  and  with  a  flow  of  spirits  which  bespeak 
a  heart  all  right  within,  they  make  all  glad  and  happy 
around  them. 

Doing  good  is  an  infallible  antidote  for  melancholy. 
When  the  heart  seems  heavy,  and  our  minds  can  light 
upon  nothing  but  little  naughty  perplexities,  everything 
going  wrong,  no  bright  spot  or  relief  anywhere  for  oui 


152  ANTIDOVE    FOR    MELANCHOLY 

crazy  thoughts,  and  we  are  finally  wound  up  in  a  web 
of  melancholy,  depend  upon  it  there  is  nothing,  nothing 
which  can  dispel  this  angry,  ponderous,  and  unnatural 
cloud  from  our  rheumatic  minds  and  consciences  like  a 
charity  visit — to  give  liberally  to  those  in  need  of  suc- 
cour, the  poor  widow,  the  suffering,  sick,  and  poor,  the 
aged  invalid,  the  lame,  the  blind,  &c.,  &c. ;  all  have  a 
claim  upon  your  bounty,  and  how  they  will  bless  you 
and  love  you  for  it — anyhow,  they  will  thank  kind  Pro- 
vidence for  your  mission  of  love.  He  that  makes  one 
Buch  visit  will  make  another  and  another ;  he  can't  very 
well  get  weary  in  such  well-doing,  for  his  is  the  greater 
blessing.  It  is  a  blessing  indeed :  how  the  heart  ia 
lightened,  the  soul  enlarged,  the  mind  improved,  and 
even  health ;  for  the  mind  being  liberated  from  perplex- 
ities, the  body  is  at  rest,  the  nerves  in  repose,  and  the 
blood,  equalized,  courses  freely  through  the  system,  giv- 
ing strength,  vigour,  and  equilibrium  to  the  whole  com- 
plicated machinery.  Thus  we  can  think  clearer,  love 
better,  enjoy  life,  and  be  thankful  for  it. 

What  a  beautiful  arrangement  it  is  that  we  can,  by 
doing  good  to  others,  do  so  much  good  to  ourselves ! 
The  wealthy  classes,  who  "  rise  above  society  like  clouds 
above  the  earth,  to  diffuse  an  abundant  dew,"  should  not 
forget  this  fact.  The  season  has  now  about  arrived, 
when  the  good  people  of  all  classes  will  be  most  busily 
engaged  in  these  delightful  duties.  The  experiment  is 
certainly  worth  trying  by  all.  If  all  those  desponding 
individuals,  whose  chief  comfort  is  to  growl  at  this 
"troublesome  world,"  will  but  take  the  hint,  look  trou- 


THE   SORROWS   OF   A   WEALTHY   CITIZEN.  153 

Me  full  in  the  face  and  relieve  it,  they  will,  like  friend 

K ,  feel  much  better. 

It  may  be  set  down  as  a  generally  correct  axiom, 
(with  some  few  exceptions,  perhaps,  such  as  accidents, 
ind  the  deceptions  and  cruelties  of  those  whom  we  inju- 
diciously select  for  friends  and  confidants,  from  our  want 
of  discernment),  that  life  is  much  what  we  make  it,  and 
so  is  the  world. 


THE  SORROWS  OF  A  WEALTHY  CITIZEN. 

Air  me  !  Am  I  really  a  rich  man,  or  am  I  not  ?  That 
is  the  question.  I  am  sure  I  don't  feel  rich;  and  yet, 
here  I  am  written  down  among  the  "  wealthy  citizens" 
as  being  worth  seventy  thousand  dollars  !  How  the  esti 
mate  was  made,  or  who  furnished  the  data,  is  all  a  mys 
tery  to  me.  I  am  sure  I  wasn't  aware  of  the  fac'. 
before.  "  Seventy  thousand  dollars !"  That  sounds 
comfortable,  doesn't  it?  Seventy  thousand  dollars! — 
But  where  is  it  ?  Ah  !  There  is  the  rub  !  How  true  it 
is  that  people  always  know  more  about  you  than  you  do 
yourself. 

Before  this  unfortunate  book  came  out  ("  The  Wealthy 
Citizens  of  Philadelphia"),  I  was  jogging  on  very  quietly. 
Nobody  seemed  to  be  aware  of  the  fact  that  I  was  a  rich 
man,  and  I  had  no  suspicion  of  the  thing  myself.  But, 
strange  to  tell,  I  awoke  one  morning  and  found  myself 
worth  seventy  thousand  dollars  !  I  shall  never  forgot 
that  duy.  Men  who  had  passed  me  ia  the  street  with  ft 


154  TIIE   SORROWS   OF   A    WEALTHY   C1TIZEW. 

quiet,  familiar  nod,  now  bowed  with  a  low  salaam,  or 
lifted  their  hats  deferentially,  TS  I  encountered  them  on 
the  pave. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  xll  this?"  thought  I.  "I 
haven't  stood  up  to  be  shot  at,  nor  sinned  ag;iin*t  inno- 
cence and  virtue.  I  haven't  been  to  Paris.  I  don't  wear 
moustaches.  What  has  given  me  this  importance?" 

And,  musing  thus,  I  pursued  my  way  in  quest  of 
money  to  help  me  out  with  some  pretty  heavy  payments. 
After  succeeding,  though  with  some  difficulty,  in  obtain- 
ing what  I  wanted,  I  returned  to  my  store  about  twelve 
o'clock.  I  found  a  mercantile  acquaintance  awaiting 
me,  who,  without  many  preliminaries,  thus  stated  his 
business : — 

"I  want,"  said  he,  with  great  coolness,  "to  get  a 
loan  of  six  or  seven  thousand  dollars;  and  I  don't  know 
.of  any  one  to  whom  I  can  apply  with  more  freedom  and 
hope  of  success  than  yourself.  I  think  I  can  satisfy  you, 
fully,  in  regard  to  security." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  replied  I,  "  if  you  only  wanted  six  or 
seven  hundred  dollars,  instead  of  six  or  seven  thousand 
dollars,  I  could  not  accommodate  you.  I  have  just  come 
in  from  a  borrowing  expedition  myself." 

I  was  struck  with  the  sudden  change  in  the  man's 
countenance.  He  was  not  only  disappointed,  but 
offended.  He  did  not  believe  my  statement.  In  hia 
eyes,  I  had  merely  resorted  to  a  subterfuge,  or,  rather, 
told  a  Ho,  because  I  did  not  wish  to  let  him  have  my 
money.  Bowing  with  cold  formality,  he  turned  away 
and  left  my  place  of  business.  His  manner  to  me  baa 
been  reserved  ever,  since. 


THE   SORROWS   OF  A  WEALTHY  CITIZEN.  155 

On  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  I  was  sitting  in  thfl 
back  p:irt  of  my  store  musing  on  some  matter  of  busi- 
ness, when  I  saw  a  couple  of  ladies  enter.  They 
spoke  to  one  of  my  clerks,  and  he  directed  them  back 
t<;  where  I  was  taking  things  comfortably  in  an  old  arm- 
rHair. 

"Mr.  G ,  I  believe?"  said  the  elder  of  the  two 

ladies,  with  a  bland  smile. 

I  had  already  arisen,  and  to  this  question,  or  rather 
affirmation,  I  bowed  assent. 

"  Mr.  G ,"  resumed  the  lady,  producing  a  small 

'>ook  as  she  spoke,  "  we  are  a  committee,  appointed  to 
make  collections  in  this  district  for  the  purpose  of 
setting  up  a  fair  in  aid  of  the  funds  of  the  Esquimaux 
Missionary  Society.  It  is  the  design  of  the  ladies  Avho 
have  taken  this  matter  in  hand  to  have  a  very  large  col- 
lection of  articles,  as  the  funds  of  the  society  are  entirely 
exhausted.  To  the  gentlemen  of  our  district,  and  espe- 
cially to  those  who  have  been  liberally  blessed  with  this 
•vorld's  goods" — this  was  particularly  emphasized — "  we 
look  for  important  aid.  Upon  you,  sir,  we  have  called 
first,  in  order  that  you  may  head  the  subscription,  and 
thus  set  an  example  of  liberality  to  others." 

And  the  lady  handed  me  the  book  in  the  most  "  of 
course"  manner  in  the  world,  and  with  the  evident  expec- 
tation that  I  would  put  down  at  least  fifty  dollars. 

Of  course  I  was  cornered,  and  must  do  something. 
I  tried  to  be  bland  and  polite ;  but  am  inclined  to  think 
that  I  failed  in  the  effort.  As  for  fairs,  I  never  did 
approve  of  them.  -  But.  that  was  nothing.  The  enemy 
had  boarded  me  so  suddenly  and  so  completely,  that 


156  THE   SORROWS   OF  A   WEALTHY   CITIZEN. 

nothing  was  left  for  me  but  to  surrender  at  discretion, 
and  I  did  so  with  as  good  grace  as  possible.  Opening 
my  desk,  I  took  out  a  five  dollar  bill  and  presented  it 
to  the  elder  of  the  two  ladies,  thinking  that  I  was  doing 
very  well  indeed.  She  took  the  money,  but  was  evi- 
dently disappointed ;  and  did  not  even  ask  me  to  head 
tho  list  with  my  name. 

"  How  money  does  harden  the  heart !"  I  overheard 
one  of  my  fair  visiters  say  to  the  other,  in  a  low  voice, 
but  plainly  intended  for  my  edification,  as  they  walked 
off  with  their  five  dollar  bill. 

"  Confound  your  impudence  !"  I  said  to  myself,  thus 
taking  my  revenge  out  of  them.  "Do  you  think  I've 
got  nothing  else  to  do  with  my  money  but  scatter  it  to 
the  four  winds?" 

And  I  stuck  my  thumbs  firmly  in  the  armholes  of  my 
•waistcoat,  and  took  a  dozen  turns  up  and  down  my  store, 
in  order  to  cool  off. 

"  Confound  your  impudence  !"  I  then  repeated,  and 
quietly  sat  down  again  in  the  old  arm-chair. 

On  the  next  day  I  had  any  number  of  calls  from 
money-hunters.  Business  men,  who  had  never  thought 
of  asking  me  for  loans,  finding  that  I  was  worth  seventy 
thousand  dollars,  crowded  in  upon  me  for  temporary 
favours,  and,  when  disappointed  in  their  expectations, 
couldn't  seem  to  understand  it.  When  I  spoke  of  being 
"hard  up"  myself,  they  looked  as  if  they  didn't  clearly 
comprehend  what  I  meant. 

A  few  days  after  the  story  of  my  wealth  had  gone 
abroad,  I  was  sitting,  one  evening,  with  my  fan  ily,  whoD 


THE   SORROWS   OF   A   WEALTHY   CITIZEN.  157 

I  was  informed  that  a  lady  was  in  the  parlour,  and 
wished  to  see  me. 

"  A  lady  !"  said  I. 

•'  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  servant. 

"  Is  she  alone?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  does  she  want?" 

"  She  did  not  say,  sir." 

"  Very  well.  Tell  her  I'll  be  down  in  a  few  mo- 
clients." 

When  I  entered  the  parlour,  I  found  a  woman,  dressed 
in  mourning,  with  her  veil  closely  drawn. 

"  Mr.  G ?"  she  said,  in  a  low,  sad  voice. 

I  bowed,  and  took  a  place  upon  the  sofa  where  she 
was  sitting,  and  from  which  she  had  not  risen  upon  my 
entrance. 

"Pardon  the  great  liberty  I  have  taken,"  she  began, 
after  a  pause  of  embarrassment,  and  in  an  unsteady 
voice.  "  But,  I  believe  I  have  not  mistaken  your  charac- 
ter for  sympathy  and  benevolence,  nor  erred  in  believing 
that  your  hand  is  ever  ready  to  respond  to  the  generous 
impulses  of  your  heart." 

I  bowed  again,  and  my  visitor  went  on. 

"  My  object  in  culling  upon  you  I  will  briefly  state. 
A  year  ago  my  husband  died.  Up  to  that  time  I  had 
never  known  the  want  of  anything  that  money  could 
buy.  He  was  a  merchant  of  this  city,  and  supposed  to 
be  in  good  circumstances.  But  he  left  an  insolvent 
estate ;  and  now,  with  five  little  ones  to  care  for,  edu- 
c'te,  and  support,  I  have  parted  with  nearly  my  last 


158  THE   SORROWS   OP  A  WEALTHY   CITIZEN. 

dollar,  and  have  not  a  single  friend  to  whom  I  can  looli 
for  aid." 

There  was  a  deep  earnestness  and  moving  pathos  in 
the  tones  of  the  woman's  voice,  that  went  to  my  heart. 
She  paused  for  a  few  moments,  overcome  with  her  feel- 
ings, and  then  resumed  : — 

"  One  in  an  extremity  like  mine,  sir,  will  do  many 
things  from  which,  under  other  circumstances,  she  should 
shrink.  This  is  my  only  excuse  for  troubling  you  at  ihe 
present  time.  But  I  cannot  see  my  little  family  in  want 
without  an  effort  to  sustain  them;  and,  with  a  little  aid, 
I  see  my  way  clear  to  do  so.  I  was  well  educated, 
and  feel  not  only  competent,  but  willing  to  undertake  a 
school.  There  is  one,  the  teacher  of  which  being  in  bad 
health,  wishes  to  give  it  up,  and  if  I  can  get  the  means 
to  buy  out  her  establishment,  will  secure  an  ample  and 
permanent  income  for  my  family.  To  aid  me,  sir,  in 
doing  this,  I  now  make  an  appeal  to  you.  1  know  you 
are  able,  and  I  believe  you  are  willing  to  put  forth  your 
hand  and  save  my  children  from  want,  and,  it  may  be, 
separation." 

The  woman  still  remained  closely  veiled  ;  I  could  not, 
therefore,  see  her  face.  But  I  could  perceive  that  she 
was  waiting  with  trembling  suspense  for  my  answer. 
Heaven  knows  my  heart  responded  freely  to  her  appeal. 

"  ITow  much  will  it  take  to  purchase  this  establish- 
nrnt  ?"  I  inquired. 

u  Only  a  thousand  dollars,"  she  replied. 

I  was  silent.      A  thousand  dollars ! 

"  I  do  not  wish  it,  sir,  as  a  gift,"  she  said;  "only  as 
a  loan.  In  a  year  or  two  I  will  be  able  to  repay  it." 


THE    SORRCWS   OF   A   WEALTHY   CITIZEN.  159 

"My  dear  madam,"  was  my  reply,  "had  I  the  ability, 
most  gladly  would  I  meet  your  wishes.  But,  I  assure 
you,  I  have  not.  A  thousand  dollars  taken  from  my 
business  would  destroy  it." 

A  deep  sigh,  that  was  almost  a  groan, "came  up  from 
the  breast  of  the  stranger,  and  her  head  dropped  low 
upon  her  bosom.  She  seemed  to  have  fully  expected 
the  relief  for  which  she  applied  ;  and  to  be  stricken  to 
the  earth  by  my  words  !  We  were  both  unhappy. 

"May  I  presume  to  ask  your  name,  madam?"  said  I. 
after  a  pause. 

"  It  would  do  no  good  to  mention  it,"  she  replied, 
mournfully.  "  It  has  cost  me  a  painful  effort  to  come  to 
yon:  and  now  that  my  hope  has  proved,  alas!  in  vain, 
I  must  beg  the  privilege  of  still  remaining  a  stranger." 

She  arose,  as  she  said  this.  Her  figure  was  tall  and 
dignified.  Dropping  me  a  slight  courtesy,  she  was  turn- 
ing to  go  away,  when  I  said, 

"  But,  madam,  even  if  I  have  not  the  ability  to  grant 
your  request.  I  may  still  have  it  in  my  power  to  aid  you 
in  this  matter.  I  am  ready  to  do  all  I  can;  and,  with- 
out doubt,  among  the  friends  of  your  husband  will  be 
found  numbers  to  step  forward  and  join  in  affording  you 
the  assistance  so  much  desired,  when  they  are  made 
aware  of  your  present  extremity." 

The  lady  made  an  impatient  gesture,  as  if  my  worda 
wore  felt  as  a  mockery  or  an  insult,  and  turning  from 
mo.  again  walked  from  the  room  with  a  firm  step.  Be- 
fore I  could  recover  myself,  she  had  passed  into  the 
street,  and  I  was  left  standing  alone.  To  this  day  I 
have  remained  in  ignorance  of  her  identity,  Cheerfullj 


160  THE    SORROWS   OF   A    WEALTHY   CITIZEN. 

would  I  have  aided  her  to  the  extent  of  my  ability  to  »lo 
BO.  Her  story  touched  my  feelings  and  awakened  my 
liveliest  sympathies,  and  if,  on  learning  her  name  and 
making  proper  inquiries  into  her  circumstances,  I  had 
found  all  tv>  be  as  she  had  stated,  I  would  have  felt  it 
a  duty  to  interest  myself  in  her  behalf,  and  have  contri- 
buted in  aid  of  the  desired  end  to  the  extent  of  my 
ability.  But  she  came  to  me  under  the  false  idea  that 
I  had  but  to  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket,  or  write  a  check 
upon  the  bank,  and  lo !  a  thousand  dollars  were  forth- 
coming. And  because  I  did  not  do  this,  she  believed  me 
unfeeling,  selfish,  and  turned  from  me  mortified,  disap- 
pointed, and  despairing. 

I  felt  sad  for  weeks  after  this  painful  interview.  On 
the  very  next  morning  I  received  a  letter  from  an  artist, 
in  which  he  spoke  of  the  extremity  of  his  circumstances, 
and  begged  me  to  purchase  a  couple  of  pictures.  I 
called  at  his  rooms,  for  I  could  not  resist  his  appeal. 
The  pictures  did  not  strike  me  as  possessing  much 
artistic  value. 

"  What  do  you  ask  for  them  ?"  I  inquired. 

"I  refused  a  hundred  dollars  for  the  pair.  But  I  am 
compelled  to  part  with  them  now,  and  you  shall  l.ave 
them  for  eighty." 

I  had  many  other  uses  for  eighty  dollars,  and  there- 
fore shook  my  head.  But,  as  he  looked  disappointed,  I 
offered  to  take  one  of  the  pictures  at  forty  dollars.  To 
this  he  agreed.  I  paid  the  money,  and  the  picture  was 
sent  home.  Some  days  afterward,  I  was  showing  it  to  a 
friend. 

**  What  did  you  pay  for  it  ?"  he  asked. 


THE    SORROWS   OF   A   WEALTHY   CITIZEN.  161 

"For*y  dollars,"  I  replied. 

The  friend  smiled  strangely. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  said  I. 

"  He  offered  it  to  me  for  twenty-five." 

"  That  picture  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  He  asked  me  eighty  for  this  and  another,  and  said 
Le  had  refused  a  hundred  for  the  pair." 

"  He  lied  though.  He  thought,  as  you  were  well  off, 
that  he  must  ask  you  a  good  stiff  price,  or  you  wouldn't 
buy." 

"  The  scoundrel  !" 

"  He  got  ahead  of  you,  certainly." 

"  But  it's  the  last  time,"  said  I,  angrily. 

And  so  things  went  on.  Scarcely  a  day  passed  in 
which  my  fame  as  a  wealthy  citizen  did  not  subject  me 
to  some  kind  of  experiment  from  people  in  want  of 
money.  If  I  employed  a  porter  for  any  service  and 
asked  what  was  .to  pay,  after  the  work  was  done,  ten 
chances  to  one  that  he  didn't  touch  his  hat  and  reply. 

"  Anything  that  you  please,  sir,"  in  the  hope  that  I, 
being  a  rich  man,  would  be  ashamed  to  offer  him  less 
than  about  four  times  his  regular  price.  Poor  people  in 
abundance  called  upon  me  for  aid ;  and  all  sorts  of 
applications  to  give  or  lend  money  met  me  at  every 
turn.  And  when  I,  in  self-defence,  begged  off  as 
politely  as  possible,  hints  gentle  or  broad,  according  to 
the  characters  or  feelings  of  those  who  came,  touching 
the  hardening  and  perverting  influence  of  wealth,  vcre 
thrown  out  for  my  especial  edification. 

And  still  the  annoyance  continues.     Nobody  but  iny- 
11 


162  THE   SORROWS   OP   A   WEALTHY   CITIZEN. 

self  doubts  the  fact  that  I  am  worth  from  seventy  to  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  I  am,  therefore,  consid- 
ered allowable  game  for  all  who  are  too  idle  or  prodigal 
to  succeed  in  the  world :  or  as  Nature's  almonei  to  all 
who  are  suffering  from  misfortunes. 

Soon  after  the  publication  to  which  I  have  alluded  was 
foisted  upon  our  community  as  a  veritable  document,  I 
found  myself  a  secular  dignitary  in  the  church  militant. 
Previously  I  had  been  only  a  pew-holder,  and  an 
unambitious  attendant  upon  the  Sabbath  ministrations 

of  the  Rev.  Mr. .  But  a  new  field  suddenly  opened 

before  me ;  I  was  a  man  of  weight  and  influence,  and 
must  be  used  for  what  I  was  worth.  It  is  no  joke,  I  can 
assure  the  reader,  when  I  tell  them  that  the  way  my 
pocket  suffered  was  truly  alarming.  I  don't  know,  but 
I  have  seriously  thought,  sometimes,  that  if  I  hadn't 
kicked  loose  from  my  dignity,  I  would  have  been 
gazetted  as  a  bankrupt  long  before  this  time. 

Soon  after  sending  in  my  resignation  as  vestryman  or 

deacon,  I  will  not  say  which,  I  met  the  Rev.  Mr.  , 

and  the  way  he  talked  to  me  about  the  earth  being  the 
"Lord's  and  the  fullness  thereof;"  about  our  having 
•'the  poor  always  with  us;"  about  the  duties  of  charity, 
and  the  laying  up  of  treasure  in  heaven,  made  rne 
ashamed  to  go  to  church  for  a  month  to  come.  T  really 
began  to  fear  that  I  was  a  doomed  man.  and  that  the 
reputation  of  being  a  "  wealthy  citizen"  was  gHr.g  to 
sink  me  into  everlasting  perdition.  But  I  MH  getting 
over  that  feeling  now.  My  cash-book,  ledger,  and  bill- 
book  set  me  right  again ;  and  I  can  button  up  my  coat 
and  draw. my  purse-strings,  when  guided  by  the  dictate* 


THE   SORROWS   OP  A   WEALTHY   CITIZEN.  163 

of  my  own  judgment,  without  a  fear  of  the  threatened 
final  consequences  before  my  eyes.  Still,  I  am  the  sub- 
ject of  perpetual  annoyance  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
who  will  persist  in  believing  that  I  am  made  of  money ; 
arid  many  of  these  approach  me  in  such  a  way  as  to  put 
it  almost  entirely  out  of  my  power  to  say  "  no."  They 
come  with  appeals  for  small  amounts,  as  loans,  donations 
to  particular  charities,  or  as  the  price  of  articles  that  I 
do  not  want,  but  which  I  cannot  well  refuse  to  take.  1 
am  sure  that,  since  I  have  obtained  my  present  unenvi- 
able reputation,  it  hasn't  cost  me  a  cent  less  than  two 
thousand,  in  money  given  away,  loaned  never  to  be 
returned,  and  in  the  purchase  of  things  thai  I  never 
would  have  thought  of  buying. 

Arid,  with  all  this,  I  have  made  more  enemies  than  I 
ever  before  had  in  my  life,  and  estranged  half  of  my 
friends  ar"l  acquaintances. 

Seriously,  I  have  it  in  contemplation  to  "bre:ik"  one 
of  these  days,  in  order  to  satisfy  the  world  that  I  am  not 
a  rich  man.  1  see  no  other  effectual  remedy  tor  my 
present  guevauces. 


'WE'VE  ALL  OUR  ANGEL  S1T»B.M 

DESPAIR  not  of  the  better  part 

That  lies  in  human  kind — 
A  gleam  of  light  still  flickereth 

In  e'en  the  darkest  mind  ; 
Tbo  savage  with  his  club  of  war, 

The  sage  so  mild  and  good. 
Are  linked  in  firm,  eternal  bonds 

Of  common  brotherhood. 
Despair  not !     Oh  !  despair  not,  then, 

For  through  this  world  so  wide. 
No  nature  is  so  demon-like, 

But  there's  an  angel  side. 

The  huge  rough  stones  from  out  the  mint. 

Unsightly  and  unfair, 
Have  veins  of  purest  metal  hid 

Beneath  the  surface  there; 
Few  rocks  so  bare  but  to  their  heights 

Some  tiny  moss-plant  clings, 
And  round  the  peaks,  so  desolate. 

The  sea-bird  sits  and  sings. 
Believe  me,  too,  that  rugged  souls, 

Beneath  their  rudeness  hide 
Much  that  is  beautiful  and  good — 

We've  all  our  angel  side. 

In  all  there  is  an  inner  depth — 

A  far  off,  secret  way, 
Whore,  through  dim  windows  of  the  soul, 

God  sends  His  smiling  ray  ; 


"WE'VE   ALL  OUR   ANGEL   SIDE."  165 

In  every  human  heart  there  is 

A  faithful  sounding  chord, 
That  may  be  struck,  unknown  to  us, 

By  some  sweet  loving  word ; 
The  wayward  heart  in  vain  may  try 

Its  softer  thoughts  to  hide, 
Some  unexpected  tone  reveals 

It  has  its  angel  side. 

Dear  ised,  and  low,  and  trodden  dowu, 

Dark  with  the  shade  of  sin : 
Deciphering  not  those  halo  lights 

Which  Ood  hath  lit  within  ; 
Groping  about  in  utmost  night, 

Poor  prisoned  souls  there  are, 
Who  guess  not  what  life's  meaning  Ut 

Nor  dream  of  heaven  afar; 
C;h  !  that  some  gentle  hand  of  love 

Their  stumbling  steps  would  guide, 
And  show  them  that,  amidst  it  all, 

Life  has  its  angel  side. 

Brutal,  and  mean,  and  dark  enough, 

God  knows,  some  natures  are, 
But  He,  compassionate,  comes  near— • 

And  shall  we  stand  afar  ? 
Our  cruse  of  oil  will  not  grow  less, 

If  shared  with  hearty  hand, 
And  words  of  peace  and  looks  of  loft 

Few  natures  can  withstand. 
Love  is  the  mighty  conqueror — 

Love  is  the  beauteous  guide — 
Love,  with  her  beaming  eyo,  can  see 

We'vj  all  our  angel  side. 


BLIND  JAMES. 

IN  the  montn  of  December,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Paris,  two  men,  one  young,  the  other  rather  advanced 
in  years,  were  descending  the  village  street,  which  wag 
made  uneven  and  almost  impassable  by  stones  and  pud- 
dles. 

Opposite  to  them,  and  ascending  this  same  street,  a 
labourer,  fastened  to  a  sort  of  dray  laden  with  a  cask, 
was  slowly  advancing,  and  beside  him  a  little  girl,  of 
about  eight  years  old,  who  was  holding  the  end  of  the 
barrow.  Suddenly  the  wheel  went  over  an  enormoua 
Btone,  which  lay  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  the  car 
leaned  towards  the  side  of  the  child. 

*'  The  man  must  be  intoxicated,"  cried  the  young 
man,  stepping  forward  to  prevent  the  overturn  of  the 
dray.  When  he  reached  the  spot,  he  perceived  that  the 
man  was  blind. 

"  Blind !"  said  he,  turning  towards  his  old  friend. 
But  the  latter,  making  him  a  sign  to  be  silent,  placed 
his  hand,  without  speaking,  on  that  of  the  labourer,  while 
the  little  girl  smiled.  The  blind  man  immediately  raised 
his  head,  his  sightless  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  two 
gentlemen,  his  face  shone  with  an  intelligent  and  natural 
pleasure,  and,  pressing  closely  the  hand  which  held  hia 
own,  he  said,  with  an  accent  of  tenderness, 

"  Mr.  Desgranges  !'* 

"How!"  said  the  young  man,  moved  and  surprised; 
"  Le  knew  you  by  the  touch  of  your  hand." 


BLIND   JAMES.  J67 

"  I  do  not  need  even  that,"  said  the  blind  man  ; 
"  when  he  passes  me  in  the  street,  I  say  to  myself, 
'That  is  his  step.'  '  And,  seizing  the  hand  of  Mr. 
Dosgranges,  he  kissed  it  with  ardour.  "  It  was  indeed 
you,  Mr.  Desgranges,  who  prevented  my  falling — always 
you." 

•'Why,"  sai.l  the  young  man,  "do  you  expose  your- 
self to  such  accidents,  by  dragging  this  ca.-k?" 

"  One  must  attend  to  his  business,  sir,"  replied  he. 
ga.vlv. 

"Your  business?" 

"Undoubtedly,"  added  Mr.  Dcsgranges.  "James  is 
our  water-carrier.  But  I  shall  scold  him  for  going  out 
without  his  wife  to  guide  him." 

"  My  wife  was  gone  away.  I  took  the  little  girl.  One 
must  be  a  little  energetic,  must  he  not?  And,  you  see, 
I  have  done  very  well  since  I  last  saw  you,  my  dear 
Mr.  Desgrange?  ;  and  you  have  assisted  me." 

"  Come,  James,  now  finish  serving  your  customers, 
and  then  you  can  call  and  see  me.  I  am  going  home." 

"Thank  you,  sir.     Good-by,  sir;  good-by,  sir." 

And  he  started  again,  dragging  his  cask,  while  the 
child  turned  towards  the  gentlemen  her  rosy  and  smiling 
face. 

"Blind,  and  a  water-carrier!"  repeated  the  young 
man,  as  they  walked  along. 

"Ah!   our  James  astonishes  vou,  my  voung  friend. 

«/  J       •/  O 

Yes,  it  is  one  of  those  miracles  liko  (hat  of  a  paralytic 
who  walks.     Should  you  like  to  know  his  story  ?" 

"  Tell  it  to  me," 

"  I  will  do  so.   It  does  not  abound  m  i'acts  or 


168  TJLIXD   JAMES. 

incidents,  but  it  will  interest  you,  I  think,  for  it  is  the 
history  of  a  soul,  and  of  a  good  soul  it  is — a  man  strug- 
gling against  the  night.  You  will  see  the  unfortunate 
man  going  step  by  step  out  of  a  bottomless  abyss  to 
begin  his  life  again — to  create  his  soul  anew.  You  will 
see  how  a  blind  man,  with  a  noble  heart  for  a  stay, 
makes  his  way  even  in  this  world." 

While  they  were  conversing,  they  reached  the  house 
of  Mr.  Desgranges,  who  began  in  this  manner: — 

"  One  morning,  three  years  since,  I  was  walking  on  a 
large  dry  plain,  which  separates  our  village  from  that 
of  Noiesemont,  and  which  is  all  covered  with  mill-stones 
just  taken  from  the  quarry.  The  process  of  blowing 
the  rocks  was  still  going  on.  Suddenly  a  violent  explo- 
sion was  heard.  I  looked.  At  a  distance  of  four  or 
five  hundred  paces,  a  gray  smoke,  which  seemed  to  corne 
from  a  hole,  rose  from  the  ground.  Stones  were  then 
thrown  up  in  the  air,  horrible  cries  were  heard,  and 
springing  from  this  hole  appeared  a  man,  who  began  to 
run  across  the  plain  as  if  mad.  He  shook  his  arms, 
screamed,  fell  down,  got  up  again,  disappeared  in  the 
great  crevices  of  the  plain,  and  appeared  again.  The 
distance  and  the  irregularity  of  his  pnth  prevented  me 
from  distinguishing  anything  clearly ;  but,  at  the  height 
of  his  head,  in  the  place  of  his  face,  I  saw  a  great,  rt- J 
mark.  In  alarm,  I  approached  him,  while  from  the 
other  side  of  the  plain,  from  Noiesemont,  a  troop  of  men 
and  women  were  advancing,  crying  aloud.  I  was  the 
first  to  reach  the  poor  creature.  His  face  was  all  one 
wound,  and  torrents  of  blood  were  streaming  Dver  his 
garments,  which  were  all  in 


BLIND   JAMES.  169 

"  Scarcely  had  I  taken  hold  of  him,  when  a  woman, 
followed  by  twenty  peasants,  approached,  and  threw 
herself  before  him. 

"  'James,  James,  is  it  you?  1  did  not  know  you, 
if  nines.' 

"  The  poor  man,  without  ansAvering,  struggled  furiously 
in  our  hands. 

"  '  Ah !'  cried  the  woman,  suddenly,  and  with  a  heart- 
rending voice,  '  it  is  he  !' 

"  She  had  recognised  a  large  silver  pin,  which  fastened 
his  shirt,  which  was  covered  with  blood. 

"  It  was  indeed  he,  her  husband,  the  father  of  three 
children,  a  poor  labourer,  who,  in  blasting  a  rock  with 
powder,  had  received  the  explosion  in  his  face,  and  was 
blind,  mutilated,  perhaps  mortally  wounded. 

"  He  was  carried  home.  I  was  obliged  to  go  away 
the  same  day,  on  a  journey,  and  was  absent  a  month. 
Before  my  departure,  I  sent  him  our  doctor,  a  man 
devoted  to  his  profession  as  a  country  physician,  and  as 
learned  as  a  city  physician.  On  my  return — 

"  '  Ah  !  well,  doctor,'  said  I,  '  the  blind  man  ?' 

"  '  It  is  all  over  with  him.  His  wounds  are  healed, 
his  head  is  doing  well,  he  is  only  blind;  but  he  will  die; 
despair  has  seized  him,  and  he  will  kill  himself.  I  can 
do  nothing  more  for  him,  This  is  all,'  he  said  ;  '  an  in- 
ternal inflammation  is  taking  place.  He  must  die.' 

"  I  hastened  to  the  poor  man.  I  arrived.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  sight.  He  was  seated  on  a  wooden 
fctool,  beside  a  hearth  on  which  there  was  no  fire,  his  eyos 
covered  with  a  white  bandage.  On  the  floor  an  infant 
of  three  months  was  sleeping;  a  little  girl  of  four  years 


170  BLIND  JAMES. 

old  was  playing  in  the  ashes ;  one,  still  older,  was  shiver- 
ing opposite  to  her  ;  and,  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  seated 
on  the  disordered  bed,  her  arms  hanging  down,  was  the 
wife.  What  was  left  to  he  imagined  in  this  spectacle 
was  more  than  met  the  eye.  One  felt  that  for  several 
hours,  perhaps,  no  word  had  heen  spoken  in  this  room. 
The  wife  was  doing  nothing,  and  seemed  to  have  no  care 
to  do  anything.  They  were  not  merely  unfortunate,  they 
seemed  like  condemned  persons.  At  the  sound  of  ray 
footsteps  they  arose,  but  without  speaking. 

"  '  You  are  the  blind  man  of  the  quarry  ?' 

"  'Yes,  sir.' 

"  '  I  have  come  to  see  you.' 

"  '  Thank  you,  sir.' 

"  *  You  met  with  a  sad  misfortune  there.' 

"  '  Yes,  sir.' 

"  His  voice  was  cold,  short,  without  any  emotion.  He 
expected  nothing  from  any  one.  I  pronounced  the  words 
*  assistance,'  *  public  compassion.' 

"  'Assistance!'  cried  his  wife,  suddenly,  with  a  tone 
of  despair;  'they  ought  to  give  it  to  us;  they  must  help 
us ;  we  have  done  nothing  to  bring  upon  us  this  misfor- 
tune ;  they  will  not  let  my  children  die  with  hunger.' 

"  She  asked  for  nothing — begged  for  nothing.  She 
claimed  help.  This  imperative  beggary  touched  me  more 
than  the  common  lamentations  of  poverty,  for  it  was  the 
voice  of  despair;  and  I  felt  in  my  pu;s2  for  some  pieces 
of  silver. 

"The  man  then,  who  had  till  new  been  silent.  saiJ, 
a  hollow  tone, 
*  Your  children  must  die,  since  I  can  uo  longer  sec. 


BLIND  JAMES  171 

44  There  s  a  strange  power  in  the  human  voice.  My 
money  fell  back  into  my  purse.  I  was  ashamed  of  the 
precanous  assistance.  I  felt  that  here  was  a  call  for 
something  more  than  mere  almsgiving — the  charity  of  a 
tiny.  I  soon  formed  my  resolution." 

"  But  what  could  you  do?"  said  the  young  man,  to 
Mr.  Desgranges. 

"What  could  I  do?"  replied  he,  with  animation. 
"  Fifteen  days  after,  James  was  saved.  A  year  after, 
he  gained  his  own  living,  and  might  be  heard  singing  at 
his  work." 

"  Saved  !  working  !  singing  !  but  how  ?" 

"How  !  by  very  natural  means.  But  wait,  I  think  I 
hear  him.  I  will  make  him  tell  you  his  simple  story. 
It  will  touch  you  more  from  his  lips.  It  will  embarrass 
me  less,  and  his  cordial  and  ardent  face  will  complete 
the  work." 

In  fact,  the  noise  of  some  one  taking  off  his  wooden 
shoes  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  then  a  little  tap. 

"  Come  in,  James  ;"  and  he  entered  with  his  wife. 

"I  have  brought  Juliana,  my  dear  Mr.  Desgranges, 
the  poor  woman — she  must  see  you  sometimes,  must  she 
not?" 

"  You  did  right,  James.     Sit  down." 

He  came  forward,  pushing  his  stick  before  him,  that 
he  might  not  knock  against  a  chair.  He  found  one.  and 

O  O  ' 

seated  himself.  He  was  young,  small,  vigorous,  with 
black  hair,  a  high  and  open  forehead,  a  singularly  ex- 
pansive face  for  a  blind  man,  and,  as  Rabelais  says,  a 
magnificent  smile  of  thirty-two  teeth.  His  wife  remained 
standing  behind  him. 


172  BLIND   JAMES. 

"  J:ime?,"  said  Mr.  Deagranges  to  him,  ''here  is  end 
of  my  good  friends,  who  is  very  desirous  to  see  you." 

"  He  is  a  good  man,  then,  since  he  is  your  friend." 

"Yes.  Talk  with  him;  I  am  going  to  see  my  gera- 
niums. But  do  riot  be  sad,  you  know  I  forbid  you  that." 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  friend,  no  !" 

This  tender  and  simple  appellation  seemed  to  charm 
the  young  man  ;  and  after  the  departure  of  his  friend, 
approaching  the  blind  man,  he  said, 

"You  are  very  fond  of  Mr.  Dosgranges?" 

"  Fond  of  him  !"  cried  the  blind  man,  with  impetuosity; 
"he  saved  me  from  ruin,  sir.  It  was  all  over  with  me; 
the  thought  of  my  children  consumed  me ;  I  was  dying 
because  I  could  not  see.  He  saved  me." 

"With  assistance — with  money?" 

"Money!  what  is  money?  Everybody  can  give  that. 
Yes,  he  clothed  us,  lie  fed  us,  he  obtained  a  subscription 
of  five  hundred  francs  (about  one  hundred  dollars)  for 
me ;  but  all  this  was  as  nothing  ;  he  did  more — he  cured 
my  heart !" 

"  But  how  ?" 

"  By  his  kind  words,  sir.  Yes,  he,  a  person  of  so 
much  consequence  in  the  world,  he  came  every  any  into 
my  poor  house,  he  sat  on  my  poor  stool,  he  talked  with 
me  an  hour,  two  hours,  till  I  became  quiet  and  easy." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you?" 

"I  do  not  know;  I  am  but  a  foolish  fellow,  arid  he 
must  tell  you  all  he  said  to  me ;  but  they  were  things  I 
had  npvcr  heard  before.  He  spoke  to  me  of  the  good 
God  better  than  a  minister;  and  he  brought  sleep  back 
to  me." 


BLIND  JAMES.  173 

"  ITow  was  that  ?" 

"It  was  two  months  since  I  had  slept  soundly.  I 
would  juct  doze,  and  then  start  up,  saying, 

"  'James,  you  are  blind,'  and  then  my  head  would  go 
round  — round,  like  a  madman  ;  and  this  was  killing 
me.  One  morning  he  came  in,  this  dear  friend,  and  said 
ti  me, 

"  '  James,  do  you  believe  in  God?' 

"  '  Why  do  you  ask  that,  Mr.  Desgranges  ?" 

"  4  Well,  this  night,  when  you  wake,  and  the  thought 
of  your  misfortune  comes  upon  you,  say  aloud  a  prayer 
— then  two — then  three — and  you  will  go  to  sleep." 

u  Yes,"  said  the  wife,  with  her  calm  voice,  "  the  good 
God,  lie  gives  sleep." 

"  This  is  not  all,  sir.  In  my  despair  I  would  have 
killed  myself.  I  said  to  myself,  *  You  are  useless  to 
your  family,  3-011  are  the  woman  of  the  house,  and  others 
support  you.'  But  he  was  displeased — '  Is  it  not  you 
who  support  your  family  ?  If  you  had  not  been  blind, 
would  any  one  have  given  you  the  five  hundred  francs?* 

"  '  That  is  true,  Mr.  Desgranges.' 

"  '  If  you  were  not  blind,  would  any  one  provide  for 
your  children  ?' 

"  '  That  is  true,  Mr.  Desgranges.' 

"  k  If  you  were  not  blind,  would  every  one  love  you, 
as  we  love  you  ?' 

"  '  It  is  true,  Mr.  Desgranges,  it  is  true.' 

"  '  You  see,  James,  there  are  misfortunes  in  all  fa  mi 
lies.  Misfortune  is  like  rain  ;  it  must  fall  a  little  on 
everybody.  If  you  were  not  blind,  your  wife  v  >u!d, 
perhaps,  be  sick;  one  of  your  children  might  Lave  died. 


174  BLIND  JAMES. 

Instead  of  that,  you  have  all  the  misfortune,  my  poor 
man  ;  but  they — they  have  none.' 

"  '  True,  true.'  And  I  began  to  feel  less  sad.  1  was 
even  happy  to  suffer  for  them.  And  then  he  added, 

"'Dear  James,  misfortune  is  either  the  greatest 
enemy  or  the  greatest  friend  of  men.  There  are  people 
whom  it  makes  wicked;  there  are  others  made  better  by 
it.  For  you,  it  must  make  you  beloved  by  everybody ; 
you  must  become  so  grateful,  so  affectionate,  that  when 
they  wish  to  speak  of  any  one  who  is  good,  they  will 
say,  good  as  the  blind  man  of  the  Noicscmont.  That  will 
serve  for  a  dowry  to  your  daughter.'  This  is  the  way 
he  talked  to  me,  sir:  and  it  gave  me  heart  to  be  unfor- 
tunate." 

"  Yes ;  but  when  he  was  not  here  ?" 

"  Ah,  when  he  was  not  here,  I  had,  to  he  sure,  some 
heavy  moments.  I  thought  of  my  eyes — the  light  is  so 
beautiful !  Oh,  (Jod !  cried  I,  in  anguish,  if  ever  I 
should  see  clearly  again,  I  would  get  up  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  I  would  riot  go  to  bed  till  ten  at 
night,  that  I  might  gather  up  more  light." 

"  James,  James  !"  said  his  wife. 

"  You  are  right,  Juliana ;  he  has  forbidden  me  to  be 
Bad.  He  would  perceive  it,  sir.  Do  you  think  that  when 
my  head  had  gone  wrong  in  the  i  ight,  and  he  came  in 
the  morning,  and  merely  looked  at  me,  he  would  say — • 
'James,  you  have  been  thinking  that;'  and  then  he 
*M)uld  scold  me,  this  dear  friend.  Yes,"  added  he,  with 
an  expression  of  joy — "  he  would  scold  me,  and  that 
would  give  me  pleasure,  because  he  tried  to  make  trig 
words  cross,  but  he  could  not  do  it." 


BLIND   JAMES.  175 

"  And  what  gave  you  the  idea  of  becoming  a  water- 
carrier  ?" 

"  He  gave  me  that,  also.  Do  you  suppose  I  have 
ideas?  I  began  to  lose  my  grief,  but  my  time  hung 
heavy  on  my  hands.  At  thirty-two  years  old,  to  be  sit- 
ting all  day  in  a  chair !  He  then  began  to  instruct  rne, 
as  he  said,  and  he  told  me  beautiful  stories.  The  Bible 
— the  history  of  an  old  man,  blind  like  me,  named  To- 
bias;  the  history  of  Joseph ;  the  history  of  David ; 
the  history  of  Jesus  Christ.  And  then  he  made  me 
repeat  them  after  him.  But  my  head,  it  was  hard — it 
was  hard  ;  it  was  not  used  to  learning,  and  I  was  always 
getting  tired  in  my  arms  and  my  legs." 

"  And  he  tormented  us  to  death,"  said  his  wift, 
laughing. 

"  True,  true,"  replied  he,  laughing  also;  "I  became 
cross.  He  came  again,  and  said. 

"  '  James,  you  must  go  to  work.' 

"  I  showed  him  my  poor,  burned  hands. 

"  '  It  is  no  matter ;  I  have  bought  you  a  capital  n. 
trade. 

"  '  Me,  Mr.  Desgranges  ?' 

"  'Yes,  James,  a  capital  into  which  they  never  put 
goods,  and  where  they  always  find  them.' 

"  'It  must  have  cost  you  a  great  deal,  sir.' 

"  'Nothing  at  all,  my  lad.' 

"  '  What  is  then  this  fund  ?' 

"  'The  river.' 

"  '  The  river  ?  Do  you  wish  me  to  become  a  fisher- 
man ?' 

*'  '  Not  all ;  a  water  carrier.' 


176  BLIND   JAMES. 

"  *  Water-carrier  !  but  eyes  ?' 

**  'Eyes;  of  what  use  are  they?  do  the  dray-horses 
have  eyes?  If  they  do,  they  make  use  of  them  ;  if  they 
tb  not,  they  do  without  them.  Come,  you  must  bo  a 
later-carrier." 

"  4  But  a  cask  ?' 

"  '  I  will  give  you  one.' 

"  '  A  cart  ?' 

"  '  I  have  ordered  one  at  the  cart-maker's.' 

'•  '  But  customers  ?' 

"  '  I  will  give  you  my  custom,  to  begin  with,  eighteen 
francs  a  month ;  (my  dear  friend  pays  for  water  as 
dearly  as  for  wine.)  Moreover,  you  have  nothing  to  say, 
either  yes  or  no.  I  have  dismissed  my  water-carrier,  and 
you  would  not  let  my  wife  and  me  die  with  thirst.  This 
dear  Madame  Desgranges,  just  think  of  it.  And  so,  my 
boy,  in  three  days — work.  And  you,  Madam  James, 
come  here  ;'  and  he  carried  off  Juliana." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continued  the  wife,  "  he  carried  me  off, 
ordered  leather  straps,  made  me  buy  the  wheels,  har- 
nessed me  ;  we  were  all  astonishment,  James  and  I ;  but 
stop,  if  you  can,  when  Mr.  Desgranges  drives  you.  At 
the  end  of  three  days,  here  we  are  with  the  cask,  he  har- 
nessed and  drawing  it,  I  behind,  pushing  ;  we  were 
ashamed  at  crossing  the  vilhige,  as  if  we  were  doing 
something  wrong ;  it  seemed  as  if  everybody  would  laugh 
nt  us.  But  Mr.  Desgranges  was  there  in  the  street. 

"  '  Come  on,  James,'  said  he,  'courage.' 

"We  came  along,  and  in  the  evening  he  put  into  our 
on nds  a  piece  of  money,  saying,"  continued  the  blind 
man.  with  emotion — 


BLIND   JAMES.  177 

" 'James,  here  are  twenty  sous  you  have  earned  to- 
day.' 

"•  Earned,  sir,  think  of  that !  earned,  it  was  fifteen 
months  that  I  had  only  eaten  what  had  been  given  to 
tiw.  It  is  good  to  receive  from  good  people,  it  is  true  ; 
tut  the  bread  that  one  earns,  it  is  as  we  say,  half  corn, 
half  barley ;  it  nourishes  better,  and  then  it  was  done,  I 
was  no  longer  the  woman,  I  was  a  labourer — a  labourer 
— James  earned  his  living." 

A  sort  of  pride  shone  from  his  face. 

"How!"  said  the  young  man,  "was  your  cask  suffi- 
cient to  support  you?" 

"  Not  alone,  sir  ;  but  I  have  still  another  profession." 

"  Another  profession  !" 

"  Ha,  ha,  yes,  sir  ;  the  river  always  runs,  except  when 
it  is  frozen,  and,  as  Mr.  Desgranges  says,  '  water-car- 
riers do  not  make  their  fortune  with  ice,'  so  he  gave  me 
a  Winter  trade  and  Summer  trade." 

"Winter  trade!" 

Mr.  Desgranges  returned  at  this  moment — Jaires 
heard  him — "  Is  it  not  true,  Mr.  Desgranges,  that  I  have 
another  trade  besides  that  of  water-carrier?" 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"  Wood  sawyer." 

"  Wood-sawyer  ?  impossible  ;  how  could  you  measure 
the  length  of  the  sticks?  how  could  you  cut  wood  with- 
out cutting  yourself?" 

"  Cut  myself,  sir,"  replied  the  blind  man,  with  a  plea- 
sant shade  of  confidence ;  "  I  formerly  was  a  wood- 
,  and  the  saw  knows  me  well ;  and  then  one  learns 
12 


178  BLIND   JAMES. 

everything — I  go  to  school,  indeed.  They  put  a  pile  c  f 
wood  at  my  left  side,  my  saw  and  saw  horse  betore  in?, 
and  a  stick  that  is  to  be  sawed  in  three  ;  I  take  a  threa.i, 
I  cut  it  the  size  of  the  third  of  the  stick — this  is  the 
measure.  Every  place  I  saw,  I  try  it,  and  so  it  goes  on 
till  now  there  is  nothing  burned  or  drunk  in  the  village 
without  calling  upon  me." 

"  Without  mentioning,"  added  Mr.  Desgranges,  "  that 
he  is  a  commissioner." 

"  A  commissioner !"  said  the  young  man,  still  more 
surprised. 

"Yes,  sir,  when  there  is  an  errand  to  be  done  at 
Melun,  I  put  my  little  girl  on  my  back,  and  then  off  I 
go.  She  sees  for  me,  I  walk  for  her ;  those  who  meet 
me,  say,  '  Here  is  a  gentleman  who  carries  his  eyes  very 
high ;'  to  which  I  answer,  '  that  is  so  I  may  see  the 
farther.'  And  then  at  night  I  have  twenty  sous  more  to 
bring  home." 

"  But  are  you  not  afraid  of  stumbling  against  the 
stones  T' 

"  I  lift  my  feet  pretty  high  ;  and  then  I  am  used  to 
it ;  I  come  from  Noiesemont  here  all  alone." 

"  All  alone  !  how  do  you  find  your  way  T' 

"  I  find  the  course  of  the  wind  as  I  leave  home,  and 
this  takes  the  place  of  the  sun  with  me." 

"  But  the  holes  ?" 

"  I  know  them  all." 

"  And  the  walls  ?" 

"I  feel  them.  "\V1  pn  I  approach  anything  thick,  sir. 
the  air  comes  with  less  force  upon  my  face  ;  it.. is  but 
now  and  then  that  I  get  a  hard  knock,  as  by  example, 


BLIND   JAMES.  179 

if  sometimes  a  little  handcart  is  left  on  the  road,  I  do 
n<  t  suspect  it — whack  !  bad  for  you,  poor  five-and-thirty. 
but  this  is  soon  over.     It  is  only  when  I  get  bewildered 
as  I  did  day  before  yesterday.     0  then " 

"  You  have  not  told  me  of  that,  James,"  said  Mr 
"Oesgranges. 

"  I  Avas,  however,  somewhat  embarrassed,  my  deai 
friend.  While  I  was  here  the  wind  changed,  I  did  not 
perceive  it ;  but  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when 
I  had  reached  the  plain  of  Noiesemont,  I  had  lost  my 
way,  and  I  felt  so  bewildered  that  I  did  not  dare  to  stir 
a  step.  You  know  the  plain,  not  a  house,  no  passers- 
by.  I  sat  down  on  the  ground,  I  listened ;  after  a  mo- 
ment, I  heard  at,  as  I  supposed,  about  two  hundred 
paces  distant,  a  noise  of  running  water.  I  said,  '  If  this 
should  be  the  stream  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 
plain  ?'  I  Avent  feeling  along  on  the  side  from  Avhich 
the  noise  came — I  reached  the  stream  ;  then  I  reasoned 
in  this  Avay :  the  Avater  comes  down  from  the  side  of 
Noieseinont  and  crosses  it.  I  put  in  my  hand  to  feel 
the  current." 

"  Bravo,  James." 

"  Yes,  but  the  water  was  so  low  and  the  current  sn 
am  all,  that  my  hand  felt  nothing.  I  put  in  the  end  of 
my  stick,  it  Avas  not  moved.  I  rubbed  my  head ;  finally, 
I  said,  'I  am  a  fool,  here  is  my  handkerchief;'  I  took 
it,  I  fastened  it  to  the  end  of  my  cane.  Soon  I  felt  that 
it  moved  gently  to  the  right,  very  gently.  Noiesernonl 
id  on  the  right.  I  started  again  and  I  get  home  to  Juliana, 
who  began  to  be  uneasy." 

'"(),"  cried  the  young  man,  "this  is  admir " 


PO  BLIND   JAMES. 

But  Mr.  Der-granges  stopped  bin  ,  and  leading  Mm  to 
tli  ?  other  end  of  the  room, 

"Silence!"  said  he  to  him  in  a  low  voice.     "Not  ad 
ini  /able — do  not  corrupt  by  pride  the  simplicity  of  this* 
BUti.     Look  at  him,  see  how  tranquil  his  face  is,  how 
cal  u  after  this  recital  which  has   moved  you  so  much. 
lie  is  ignorant  of  himself,  do  not  spoil  him." 

*  It  is  so  touching,"  said  the  young  man,  in  a  low 
ton,. 

''  Undoubtedly,  and  still  his  superiority  does  not  lie 
ther*.  A  thousand  blind  men  have  found  out  these 
ingcp-ous  resources,  a  thousand  will  find  them  again  ; 
but  tb*s  moral  perfection — this  heart,  which  opens  itself 
so  readily  to  elevated  consolations — this  heart  which 
so  willu.gly  takes  upon  it  the  part  of  a  victim  — 
this  heort  which  has  restored  him  to  life.  For  do  not 
be  deceived,  it  is  not  t  who  have  saved  him,  it  is  his 
affection  t.ir  me;  his  ardent  gratitude  has  filled  his  whole 
soul,  arid  has  sustained — he  has  lived  because  he  has 
loved  !" 

At  that  moment,  James,  who  had  remained  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  and  who  perceived  that  we  were 
speaking  low,  got  up  softly,  and  with  a  delicate  discre- 
tion, said  to  his  wife, 

"  We  will  go  away  without  making  any  noise." 

"  Are  you  going,  James?" 

"  I  am  in  the  way,  my  dear  Mr.  Desgranges." 

"  No,  pray  stay  longer." 

His  benefactor  retained  him,  reaching  out  to  him  cor- 
dially his  hand.  The  blind  man  seized  the  hand  in  Im 
turn,  and  pressed  it  warmly  against  his  heart. 


BLIND  JAMES.  181. 

"My  dear  friend,  my  dear  good  friend,  you  permit 
me  to  stay  a  little  longer.  How  g'uul  I  am  to  find  my- 
self near  you.  When  I  am  sad  I  say — '  James,  the 
good  God  will,  perhaps,  of  His  mercy,  put  you  in  the 
same  paradise  with  Mr.  Desgranges,'  and  that  does  mo 
go-  J." 

The  young  man  smiled  at  this  simple  tenderness, 
<rhich  believed  in  a  hierarchy  in  Heaven.  James  heard 
him. 

"  You  smile,  sir.  But  this  good  man  has  re-created 
James.  I  dream  of  it  every  night — I  have  never  seen 
him,  but  I  shall  know  him  then.  Oh  my  God,  if  I  re 
cover  my  sight  I  will  look  at  him  for  ever — for  ever,  like 
the  light,  till  he  shall  say  to  me,  James,  go  away.  But 
he  will  not  say  so,  he  is  too  good.  If  I  had  known  him. 
four  years  ago,  I  Avould  have  served  him,  and  never  have 
left  him." 

"James,  James !"  said  Mr.  Desgranges;  but  the  poor 
man  could  not  be  silenced. 

"  It  is  enough  to  know  he  is  in  the  village;  this  makes 
my  heart  easy.  I  do  not  always  wish  to  come  in,  but  1 
pass  before  his  house,  it  is  always  there ;  and  when  he  is 
gone  a  journey  I  make  Juliana  lead  me  into  the  plain 
of  Noiesemont,  and  I  sa}T — '  turn  me  towards  the  place 
where  he  is  gone,  that  I  may  breathe  the  same  air  with 
him.'  " 

Mr.  Desgranges  put  his  hand  before  his  mouth.  James 
stopped. 

"•  You  are  right,  Mr.  Desgranges,  my  mouth  is  rude, 
it  is  only  my  heart  which  is  right.  Come,  wife,"  said  he, 
gayly,  and  drying  his  great  tears  which  rolled  from  hij 


182  BLIND  JAMES 

eves,  *'  Come,  we  must  give  our  children  their  supper. 
Gooil-by,  my  dear  friend,  good-by,  sir." 

He  went  away,  moving  his  staff  before  him.  Just  as 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door,  Mr.  Desgranges  called 
him  back. 

'•  I  want  to  tell  you  a  piece  of  news  which  will  </-e 
you  pleasure.  I  was  going  to  leave  the  village  this 
year  ;  but  I  have  just  taken  a  new  lease  of  five  years  of 
my  landlady." 

"  Do  you  see,  Juliana,"  said  James  to  his  wife, 
turning  round,  "  I  was  right  when  I  said  he  was  going 
away." 

"How,"  replied  Mr.  Desgranges,  "I  had  told  them 
not  to  tell  you  of  of  it." 

"Yes;  but  here,"  putting  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
"  everything  is  plain  here.  I  heard  about  a  month  since, 
some  I'.ttle  words,  which  had  begun  to  make  my  head 
turn  round ;  when,  last  Sunday,  your  landlady  called 
me  to  her,  and  showed  me  more  kindness  than  usual, 
promising  me  that  she  would  take  care  of  me,  and  that 
she  would  never  abandon  me.  When  I  came  home,  I 
said  to  Juliana,  '  Wife,  Mr.  Desgranges  is  <*oing  to  quit 
the  village ;  but  that  lady  has  consoled  me.  ' 

In  a  few  moments  the  blind  man  had  returned  to  hlf 


DEPENDENCE. 

"WELL,  Alary,"  said  Aunt  Frances,  "how  do  you 
propose  to  spend  the  summer?  It  is  so  long  since  the 
failure  and  death  of  your  guardian,  that  I  suppose  you 
are  now  familiar  with  your  position,  and  prepared  to 
mark  out  some  course  for  the  future." 

"  True,  aunt ;  I  have  had  many  painful  thoughts  with 
regard  to  the  loss  of  my  fortune,  and  I  was  for  a  time 
in  great  uncertainty  about  my  future  course,  but  a  kind 
offer,  which  I  received,  yesterday,  has  removed  that 
burden.  I  now  know  where  to  find  a  respectable  and 
pleasant  home." 

"Is  the  offer  you  speak  of  one  of  marriage?"  asked 
Aunt  Frances,  smiling. 

"  Oil !  dear,  no ;  I  am  too  young  for  that  yet.  But 
Cousin  Kate  is  happily  married,  and  lives  a  few  miles 
out  of  the  city,  in  just  the  cosiest  little  spot,  only  a 
little  too  retired  ;  and  she  has  persuaded  me  that  I  shall 
do  her  a,  great  kindness  to  accept  a  home  with  her." 

"  Let  me  see.  Kate's  husband  is  not  wealthy,  I  be- 
lieve?" 

"  No :  Charles  Howard  is  not  wealthy,  but  his  busi- 
ness is  very  good,  and  improving  every  year ;  arid  both 
he  and  Kate  are  too  whole-souled  and  generous  to  regret 
ji\ing  an  asylum  to  an  unfortunate  girl  like  me.  They 
feel  that.  '  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive.' ' 

u  A  very  noble  feeling,  Mary ;  but  one  in  which  I  ail) 
sorry  to  perceive  that  you  arc  a  little  wanting." 


184  DEPENDENCE. 

"  Oh  !  no,  Aunt  Frances,  I  do  feel  it  deeply ;  but  it 
is  the  curse  of  poverty  that  one  must  give  up,  in  somo 
measure,  the  power  of  benefiting  others.  And,  then,  I 
mean  to  beguile  Kate  of  so  many  lonely  hours,  and  per- 
form so  many  friendly  offices  for  her  husband,  that  they 
will  think  me  not  a  burden  but  a  treasure." 

'•And  you  really  think  you  can  give  them  as  much 
comfort  as  the  expense  of  your  maintenance  could  pro- 
cure them  in  any  other  way  ?" 

"  Yes,  aunt ;  it  may  sound  conceited,  perhaps,  but  I 
do  really  think  I  can.  I  am  sure,  if  I  thought  other- 
wise, I  would  never  consent  to  become  -A  burden  to 
them." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  then  your  own  interest  is  all  that 
remains  to  be  considered.  There  are  few  blessings  in 
life  that  can  compensate  for  the  loss  of  self-reliance. 
She  who  derives  her  support  from  persons  upon  whom 
she  has  no  natural  claim>  finds  the  effect  upon  herself  to 
be  decidedly  narrowing.  Perpetually  in  debt,  without 
the  means  of  reimbursement,  barred  from  any  generous 
action  which  does  not  seem  like  '  robbing  Peter  to  pay 
Paul,'  she  sinks  too  often  into  the  character  of  a  sponge, 
whose  only  business  is  absorption.  But  I  see  you  do 
not  like  what  I  am  saying,  and  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing which  I  am  sure  you  will  like — my  own  veritable 
history. 

"I  was  left  an  orphan  in  childhood,  like  yourself,  anl 
when  my  father's  affairs  were  settled,  not  a  dollar  re- 
mained for  my  support.  I  was  only  six  years  of  age, 
but  I  had  attracted  the  notice  of  a  distant  relative,  who 
was  a  man  of  considerable  wealth.  Without  any  effort 


DEPENDENCE.  185 

of  my  own,  I  lecame  an  inmate  of  his  family,  and  hia 
oniy  son,  a  few  years  my  elder,  was  taught  to  consider 
me  as  a  sister. 

"  George  Somers  was  a  generous,  kind-hearted  boy, 
nnd  I  believe  he  was  none  the  less  fond  of  me,  because  I 
was  likely  to  rob  him  of  half  his  fortune.  Mr.  Somers 
oi'ten  spoke  of  making  a  will,  in  which  I  was  to  share 
equally  with  his  son  in  the  division  of  his  property,  but 
a  natural  reluctance  to  so  grave  a  task  led  him  to  defer 
it  from  one  year  to  another.  Meantime,  I  was  sent  to 
expensive  schools,  and  was  as  idle  and  superficial  as  any 
heiress  in  the  land. 

"  I  was  just  sixteen  when  my  kind  benefactor  sud- 
denly perished  on  board  the  ill-fated  Lexington,  and,  as 
he  died  without  a  will,  I  had  no  legal  claim  to  any  far- 
ther favours.  But  George  Somers  was  known  as  a  very 
open-handed  youth,  upright  and  honourable,  and,  as  he 
was  perfectly  well  acquainted  with  the  wishes  of  his 
father,  I  felt  no  fears  with  regard  to  my  pecuniary  con- 
dition. While  yet  overwhelmed  with  grief  at  the  loss  of 
one  whom  my  heart  called  father,  I  received  a  very  kind 
and  sympathizing  letter  from  George,  in  which  he  said 
he  thought  I  had  better  remain  at  school  for  another 
year,  as  had  been  originally  intended. 

" '  Of  course,'  he  added,  '  the  death  of  my  father  does 
not  alter  our  relation  in  the  least ;  you  are  still  my  deur 
and  only  sister.' 

"  And,  in  compliance  with  his  wishes,  I  passed  an- 
other year  at  a  very  fashionable  school — a  year  of 
girlish  frivolity,  in  which  my  last  chance  of  acquiring 
knowledge  as  a  means  of  future  independence  was 


186  DEPENDENCE. 

wholly  thrown  away.  Before  the  close  of  this  year  I 
received  another  letter  from  George,  which  somewhac 
surprised,  but  did  not  at  all  dishearten  me.  It  was,  in 
substance,  as  follows  : — 

"'My  own  dear  Sister: — I  wrote  you,  some  months 
ago,  from  Savannah,  in  Georgia,  and  told  you  how  much 
1  was  delighted  with  the  place  and  people;  how  charmed 
with  Southern  frankness  and  hospitality.  But  I  did  not 
tell  you  that  I  had  there  met  with  positively  the  most 
bewitching  creature  in  the  world — for  I  was  but  a  timid 
lover,  and  feared  that,  as  the  song  says,  the  course  of 
true  love  never  would  run  smooth.  My  charming  Laura 
was  a  considerable  heiress,  and  although  no  sordid  con- 
siderations ever  had  a  feather's  weight  upon  her  own 
preferences,  of  course,  yet  her  father  was  naturally  and 
very  properly  anxious  that  the  guardian  of  so  fair  a 
flower  should  be  able  to  shield  it  from  the  biting  winds 
of  poverty.  Indeed,  I  had  some  difficulty  in  satisfying 
his  wishes  on  this  point,  and,  in  order  to  do  so,  I  will 
frankly  own  that  I  assumed  to  myself  the  unencumbered 
possession  of  my  father's  estate,  of  which  so  large  a 
share  belongs  of  right  to  you.  I  am  confident  that 
•when  you  know  my  Laura  you  will  forgive  me  this 
merely  nominal  injustice.  Of  course,  this  connexion 
can  make  no  sort  of  difference  in  your  rights  and  ex 
pectations.  You  will  always  have  a  home  at  my  house. 
Laura  is  delighted  with  the  idea  of  such  a  companion, 
and  says  she  would  on  no  account  dispense  with  that 
arrangement.  And  whenever  you  marry,  as  girls  do 
and  will,  I  shall  hold  myself  bound  to  satisfy  any  rea- 
sonable wishes  on  the  part  of  the  happy  youth  that  wins 


DEPENDENCE.  187 

you.  Circumstances  hastened  my  marriage  somewhat 
unexpectedly,  or  I  should  certainly  have  informed  you 
previously,  and  requested  your  presence  at  the  nuptial 
ceremony.  We  have  secured  a  beautiful  house  in  Brook- 
lyn, and  shall  expect  you  to  join  us  as  soon  as  your  pre- 
sent year  expires.  Laura  sends  her  kindest  regards, 
and  I  remain,  as  always,  your  sincere  and  affectionate 
brother,  GEORGE  SOMERS.' 

"  Not  long  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  one  of  the 
instructresses  in  the  institution  where  I  resided  requested 
the  favour  of  a  private  interview.  She  then  said  she 
knew  something  generally  of  my  position  and  prospects, 
and,  as  she  had  always  felt  an  instinctive  interest  in  my 
fortunes,  she  could  not  see  me  leave  the  place  without 
seeking  my  confidence,  and  rendering  me  aid,  if  aid  was 
in  her  power.  Though  surprised  and,  to  say  the  truth, 
indignant,  I  simply  inquired  what  views  had  occurred  to 
her  with  regard  to  my  future  life. 

"  She  said,  then,  very  kindly,  that  although  I  was  not 
very  thorough  in  any  branch  of  study,  yet  she  thought 
1  had  a  decided  taste  for  the  lighter  and  more  orna- 
mental parts  of  female  education.  That  a  few  months 
earnest  attention  to  these  would  fit  me  for  a  position  in- 
dependent of  my  connexions,  and  one  of  which  none  of 
!iiy  friends  would  have  cause  to  be  ashamed. 

"  I  am  deeply  pained  to  own  to  you  how  I  answered 
her.  Drawing  myself  up,  I  said,  coldly, 

" '  I  am  obliged  to  you,  madam,  for  your  quite  unsoli- 
cited interest  in  my  affairs.  When  I  leave  this  place, 
it  will  be  to  join  my  brother  and  sister  in  Brooklyn, 
and,  as  we  are  all  reasonably  wealthy,  I  must  try  to 


188  DEPENDENCE. 

make  gold  varnish  over  any  defects  in  my  neglected 
education.' 

"  I  looked  to  see  my  kind  adviser  entirely  annihilated 
by  these  imposing  words,  but  she  answered  with  perfect 
calmness, 

" '  I  know  Laura  Wentworth,  now  Mrs.  Somers.  She 
was  educated  at  the  North,  and  was  a  pupil  of  my  own 
for  a  year.  She  is  wealthy  and  beautiful,  and  I  hope 
you  will  never  have  cause  to  regret  assuming  a  position 
with  regard  to  her  that  might  be  mistaken  for  depend- 
ence.' 

"  With  these  words,  my  well-meaning,  but  perhaps 
injudicious  friend,  took  leave,  and  I  burst  into  a  mock- 
ing laugh,  that  I  hoped  she  might  linger  long  enough  to 
hear.  '  This  is  too  good  !'  I  repeated  to  myself — but  I 
could  not  feel  perfectly  at  ease.  However,  I  soon  for- 
got all  thoughts  of  the  future,  in  the  present  duties  of 
scribbling  in  fifty  albums,  and  exchanging  keepsakes, 
tears,  and  kisses,  with  a  like  number  of  very  intimate 
friends. 

"  It  was  not  until  I  had  finally  left  school,  and  was 
fairly  on  the  way  to  the  home  of  my  brother,  that  I 
found  a  moment's  leisure  to  think  seriously  of  the  life 
that  was  before  me.  I  com  »ss  that  I  felt  some  secret 
misgivings,  as  I  stood  at  last  upon  the  steps  of  the  very 
elegant  house  that  was  to  be  my  future  home.  The  ser- 
vant who  obeyed  my  summons,  inquired  if  I  was  Miss 
Uankin,  a  name  I  had  never  borne  since  childhood. 

"  I  was  about  to  reply  in  the  negative,  when  she 
added,  '  If  you  are  the  young  lady  that  Mr.  Somers  i* 


MY  FUTURK  HOME. 


DEPENDENCE.  189 

expecting  from  the  seminary,  I  will  show  you  to  your 
room.' 

u  I  followed  mechanically,  and  was  left  in  a  very 
pretty  chamber,  with  the  information  that  Mrs.  Somers 
was  a  little  indisposed,  but  would  meet  me  at  dinner. 
The  maid  added  that  Mr.  Somers  was  out  of  town,  and 
would  not  return  till  evening.  After  a  very  uncomfort- 
able hour,  during  which  I  resolutely  suspended  my  opi- 
nion with  regard  to  my  position,  the  dinner-bell  rang, 
and  the  domestic  again  appeared  to  show  me  to  the 
dining-room. 

"  Mrs.  Somers  met  me  with  extended  hand.  '  My 
dear  Miss  Rankin!'  she  exclaimed,  'I  am  most  happy 
to  see  you.  I  have  heard  George  speak  of  you  so  often 
and  so  warmly  that  I  consider  you  quite  as  a  relative. 
Come  directly  to  the  table.  I  am  sure  you  must  be 
famished  after  your  long  ride.  I  hope  you  will  make 
yourself  one  of  us,  at  once,  and  let  me  call  you  Fanny. 
May  I  call  you  Cousin  Fanny?"  she  pursued,  with  an 
air  of  sweet  condescension  that  was  meant  to  be  irre- 
sistible. 

"  '  As  you  please,'  I  replied  coldly. 

"  To  which  she  quickly  responded,  '  Oh,  that  will  be 
delightful.' 

'*  She  then  turned  to  superintend  the  carving  of  a 
fowl,  and  I  had  time  to  look  at  her  undisturbed.  She 
was  tall  and  finely  formed,  with  small  delicate  features, 
and  an  exquisite  grace  in  every  movement ;  a  haughty 
sweetness  that  was  perfectly  indescribable.  She  had 
very  beautiful  teeth,  which  she  showed  liberally  when 
«he  smiled,  and  in  her  graver  moments  her  slight  fea« 


190  DEPENDENCE. 

tures  wore  an  imperturbable  serenity,  as  if  the  round 
world  contained  nothing  that  was  really  worth  her  atten- 
tion. An  animated  statue,  cold,  polished,  and  pitiless .' 
was  my  inward  thought,  as  I  bent  over  my  dinner. 

"  When  the  meal  was  over,  Mrs.  Somers  said  to  me, 
in  a  tone  of  playful  authority, 

"  *  Now,  Cousin  Fanny,  I  want  you  to  go  to  your 
room  and  rest,  and  not  do  an  earthly  thing  until  tea- 
time.  After  that  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  show 
you.' 

"  At  night  I  was  accordingly  shown  a  great  part  of 
the  house ;  a  costly  residence,  and  exquisitely  furnished. 
But,  alas  !  I  already  wearied  of  this  icy  splendour 
Every  smile  of  my  beautiful  hostess  (I  could  not  now 
call  her  sister),  every  tone  of  her  soft  voice,  every  move- 
ment of  her  superb  form,  half  queen-like  dignity,  half 
fawn-like  grace — seemed  to  place  an  insurmountable 
barrier  between  herself  and  me.  It  was  not  that  I 
thought  more  humbly  of  myself — not  that  I  did  not 
even  consider  myself  her  equal — but  her  dainty  blandish- 
ments were  a  delicate  frost-work,  that  almost  made  me 
shiver;  and  when  she  touched  her  cool  lips  to  mine, 
and  said  '  Good-night,  dear,'  I  felt  as  u  even  then  sepa- 
rated from  her  real,  living  self,  by  a  wall  of  freezing 
marble. 

""Poor  George!'  I  said,  as  I  retired  to  rest — 'You 
have  wedded  this  soulless  woman,  and  she  will  wind  you 
round  her  finger.' 

"  I  did  not  sit  up  for  him,  for  he  was  detained  till  a 
late  hour,  but  I  obeyed  the  breakfast-bell  with  unfashion- 
able eagerness,  as  I  was  becoming  nervous  about  oui 


DEPENDENCE.  101 

meeting,  and  really  anxious  to  have  it  over.  After  a 
delay  of  some  minutes,  I  heard  the  wedded  pair  coming 
leisurely  down  the  stairs,  in  very  amicable  chatter. 

"  '  I  am  glad  you  like  her,  Laura,'  said  a  voice  which 
I  knew  in  a  moment  as  that  of  George.  How  I  shivered 
as  I  caught  the  smooth  reply,  '  A  nice  little  thing.  I 
am  very  glad  of  the  connexion.  It  will  be  such  a  relief 
not  to  rely  entirely  upon  servants.  There  should  be  a 
middle  class  in  every  family.' 

"  With  these  words  she  glided  through  the  door, 
looked  with  perfect  calmness  in  my  flashing  eyes,  and 
said, 

" '  Ah,  Fanny !  I  was  just  telling  George  here  how 
much  I  shall  like  you.' 

"  The  husband  came  forward  with  an  embarrassed  air ; 
I  strove  to  meet  him  with  dignity,  but  my  heart  failed 
me,  and  I  burst  into  tears. 

"'Forgive  me,  madam,'  I  said,  on  regaining  my  com- 
posure— '  This  is  our  first  meeting  since  the  death  of 
our  father.' 

"' I  understand  your  feelings  perfectly,'  she  quietly 
replied.  '  My  father  knew  the  late  Mr.  Somers  well, 
and  thought  very  highly  of  him.  He  was  charitable  to 
a  fault,  and  yet  remarkable  for  discernment.  His  bounty 
was  seldom  unworthily  bestowed.' 

"  His  bounty !  I  had  never  been  thought  easy  to  in- 
timidate,  but  I  quailed  before  this  unapproachable  ice« 
berg. 

"  I  made  no  attempt  from  that  moment  to  vindicate 
what  I  was  pleased  to  call  my  rights,  Vut  awaited  pas- 


192  DEPENDENCE. 


the  progress  of  events.  After  breakfast,  Mrs, 
Somers  said  to  the  maid  in  attendance, 

"  'Dorothy,  bring  some  hot  water  and  towels  for  Miss 
Rankin.' 

"  She  then  turned  to  me  and  continued,  *  I  shall  feel 
the  china  perfectly  safe  in  your  hands,  cousin.  These 
servants  are  so  very  unreliable.' 

"And  she  followed  George  to  the  parlour  above, 
where  their  lively  tones  and  light  laughter  made  agree- 
able music. 

"  In  the  same  easy  way,  I  was  invested  with  a  variety 
of  domestic  cares,  most  of  them  such  as  I  would  will- 
ingly have  accepted,  had  she  waited  for  me  to  manifest 
such  a  willingness.  But  a  few  days  after  my  arrival, 
we  received  a  visit  from  little  Ella  Grey,  a  cousin  of 
Laura's,  who  was  taken  seriously  ill  on  the  first  evening 
of  her  stay.  A  physician  was  promptly  summoned,  and, 
after  a  conference  with  him,  Mrs.  Somers  came  to  me, 
inquiring  earnestly, 

"  '  Cousin  Fanny,  have  you  ever  had  the  measles  ?' 

"  I  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"  '  Oh,  I  am  very  glad  !'  was  her  response  ;  'for  little 
Ella  is  attacked  with  them,  and  very  severely  ;  but,  if 
you  will  take  charge  of  her,  I  shall  feel  no  anxiety.  It 
is  dreadful  in  sickness  to  be  obliged  to  depend  upon 
hirelings.' 

"  So  I  was  duly  installed  as  little  Ella's  nurse,  and, 
as  she  was  a  spoiled  child,  my  task  was  neither  easy  nor 
agreeable. 

"No  sooner  was  the  whining  little  creature  sufficiently 
improved  to  be  taken  to  her  own  home,  than  the  house 


DEPENDENCE.  193 

was  thrown  into  confusion  by  preparations  for  a  brilliant 
party.  Laura  took  me  with  her  on  a  shopping  excur- 
sion, and  bade  me  select  whatever  I  wished,  and  send 
the  bill  with  hers  to  Mr.  Somers.  I  purchased  a  few 
indispensable  articles,  but  I  felt  embarrassed  by  her 
calm,  scrutinizing  gaze,  and  by  the  consciousness  that 
every  item  of  my  expenditures  would  be  scanned  by, 
perhaps,  censorious  eyes. 

"What  with  my  previous  fatigue  while  acting  as  Ella's 
nurse,  and  the  laborious  preparations  for  the  approach- 
ing festival,  I  felt,  as  the  time  drew  near,  completely 
exhausted.  Yet  I  was  determined  not  to  so  far  give 
way  to  the  depressing  influences  that  surrounded  me,  as 
to  absent  myself  from  the  party.  So,  after  snatching 
an  interval  of  rest,  to  relieve  my  aching  head,  I  dressed 
myself  with  unusual  care,  and  repaired  to  the  brilliantly 
lighted  rooms.  They  were  already  filled,  and  murmur- 
ing like  a  swarm  of  bees,  although,  as  one  of  the  guests 
remarked,  there  were  more  drones  than  workers  in  the 
hive.  I  was  now  no  drone,  certainly,  and  that  was  some 
consolation.  When  I  entered,  Laura  was  conversing 
with  a  group  of  dashing  young  men,  who  were  blunder- 
ing over  a  book  of  charades.  Seeing  me  enter,  she  camo 
towards  me  immediately. 

"  '  Cousin  Fanny,  you  who  help  everybody,  I  want 
you  to  come  to  the  aid  of  these  stupid  young  men. 
Gentlemen,  this  is  our  Cousin  Fanny,  the  very  best 
creature  in  the  world.'  And  with  thir,  introduction  she 
left  me,  and  turned  to  greet  some  new  arrivals.  After 
discussing  the  charades  till  my  ears  were  weary  of  empty 
and  aimless  chatter,  I  was  very  glad  to  find  my  group 
13 


194  DEPENDENCE. 

of  young  men  gradually  dispersing,  and  myself  at  liberty 
to  look  about  me,  undisturbed.  George  soon  came  to 
me,  gave  me  his  arm,  and  took  me  to  a  room  where  were 
several  ladies,  friends  of  his  father,  and  who  had  known 
me  very  well  as  a  child. 

"'You  remember  Fanny,'  he  said  to  them  :  and  then 
left  me,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  courteous  duties  of 
the  hour.  While  I  was  indulging  in  a  quiet  chat  with  a 
very  kind  old  friend,  she  proposed  to  go  with  me  to  look 
at  the  dancers,  as  the  music  was  remarkably  fine,  and 
it  was  thought  the  collected  beauty  and  fashion  of  the 
evening  would  make  a  very  brilliant  show.  We  left  our 
seats,  accordingly,  but  were  soon  engaged  in  the  crowd, 
and  while  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  move  on,  I  heard 
one  of  my  young  men  ask  another, 

"  '  How  do  you  like  la  cousine  T 

"  I  lost  a  part  of  the  answer,  but  heard  the  closing 
words  distinctly — '  et  un  pen  passee.'  '  Oui,  decide- 
merit!'  was  the  prompt  response,  and  a  light  laugh 
followed,  while,  shrinking  close  to  my  kind  friend,  I 
rejoiced  that  my  short  stature  concealed  me  from  obser- 
vation. I  was  not  very  well  taught,  but,  like  most 
school-girls,  I  had  a  smattering  of  French,  and  I  knev 
the  meaning  of  the  very  ordinary  phrases  that  had  been 
used  with  regard  to  me.  Before  the  supper-hour,  my 
headache  became  so  severe  that  I  was  glad  to  take  re- 
fuge in  my  own  room.  There  I  consulted  my  mirror, 
and  felt  disposed  to  forgive  the  young  critics  for  their 
disparaging  remarks.  Passee !  I  looked  twenty-five 
at  least,  and  yet  I  was  not  eighteen,  and  six  months  be- 
fore I  had  fancied  myself  a  beauty  and  an  heiress ! 


DEPENDENCE.  195 

"But  I  will  not  weary  you  with  details.  Suffice  it  to 
say,  that  I  spent  only  three  months  of  this  kind  of  life, 
and  then  relinquished  the  protection  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Soiners,  and  removed  to  a  second-rate  boarding-house, 
where  I  attempted  to  maintain  myself  by  giving  lessons 
in  music.  Every  day,  however,  convinced  me  of  my 
unfitness  for  this  task,  and,  as  I  soon  felt  an  interest  in 
the  sweet  little  girls  who  looked  up  to  me  for  instruction, 
my  position  \vith  regard  to  them  became  truly  embar- 
rassing. One  day  I  had  been  wearying  myself  by 
attempting  the  impossible  task  of  making  clear  to  an- 
other mind,  ideas  that  lay  confusedly  in  my  own,  and 
at  last  I  said  to  my  pupil, 

"  '  You  may  go  home  now,  Clara,  dear,  and  practise 
the  lesson  of  yesterday.  I  am  really  ill  to-day,  but  to- 
morrow I  shall  feel  better,  and  I  hope  I  shall  then  be 
able  to  make  you  understand  me.' 

"  The  child  glided  out,  but  a  shadow  still  fell  across 
the  carpet.  1  looked  up,  and  saw  in  the  doorway  a 
young  man.  whose  eccentricities  sometimes  excited  a 
smile  among  his  fellow-boarders,  but  who  was  much  re- 
spected for  his  sense  and  independence. 

"  '  To  make  yourself  understood  by  others,  you  must 
first  learn  to  understand  yourself,'  said  he,  as  he  came 
forward.  Then,  taking  my  hand,  he  continued, — 'What 
if  you  should  give  up  all  this  abortive  labour,  take  a 
new  pupil,  and,  instead  of  imparting  to  others  what  you 
have  not  very  firmly  grasped  yourself,  try  if  you  can 
make  a  human  being  of  me  ?' 

"  I  looked  into  his  large  gray  eyes,  and  saw  the  truth 
and  earnestness  shining  in  their  depths,  like  pebbles  at 


196  DEPENDENCE. 

the  bottom  of  a  pellucid  spring.  I  never  once  thought 
of  giving  him  a  conventional  reply.  On  the  contrary, 
I  stammered  out, 

" '  I  am  full  of  faults  and  errors ;  I  could  never  do 
you  any  good.' 

"  *  I  have  studied  your  character  attentively,'  returned 
he,  'and  I  know  you  have  faults,  but  they  are  unlike 
mine ;  and  I  think  that  you  might  be  of  great  service 
to  me;  or,  if  the  expression  suits  you  better,  that  we 
might  be  of  great  aid  to  each  other.  Become  my  wife, 
and  I  will  promise  to  improve  more  rapidly  than  any 
pupil  in  your  class.' 

"  And  I  did  become  his  wife,  but  not  until  a  much 
longer  acquaintance  had  convinced  me,  that  in  so  doing, 
I  should  not  exchange  one  form  of  dependence  for  an- 
other, more  galling  and  more  hopeless." 

"Then  this  eccentric  young  man  was  Uncle  Robert?" 

"  Precisely.  But  you  see  he  has  made  great  improve, 
ment,  since." 

"Well,  Aunt  Frances,  I  thank  you  for  your  story; 
and  now  for  the  moral.  What  do  you  think  I  had  better 
do?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  you  can  do,  if  you  choose. 
Your  uncle  has  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  his  mother. 
He  finds  her  a  mere  child,  gentle  and  amiable,  but  wholly 
unfit  to  take  charge  of  herself.  Her  clothes  have  taken 
fire  repeatedly,  from  her  want  of  judgment  with  regard 
to  fuel  and  lights,  and  she  needs  a  companion  for  every 
moment  of  the  day.  This,  with  their  present  family,  is 
impossible,  and  they  are  desirous  to  secure  some  one 
who  will  devote  herself  to  your  grandmother  during  the 


DEPENDENCE.  197 

hours  when  your  aunt  and  the  domestics  are  necessarily 
engaged.  You  were  always  a  favourite  there,  and  I 
know  they  would  be  very  much  relieved  if  you  would 
take  this  office  for  a  time,  but  they  feel  a  delicacy  in 
making  any  such  proposal.  You  can  have  all  your  fa- 
vourites about  you — books,  flowers,  and  piano ;  for  the 
dear  old  lady  delights  to  hear  reading  or  music,  and  will 
sit  for  hours  with  a  vacant  smile  upon  her  pale,  faded 
face.  Then  your  afternoons  will  be  entirely  your  own, 
and  Robert  is  empowered  to  pay  any  reliable  person  a 
salary  of  a  fixed  and  ample  amount,  which  will  make 
you  independent  for  the  time." 

"  But,  aunt,  you  will  laugh  at  me,  I  know,  yet  I  do 
really  fear  that  Kate  will  feel  this  arrangement  as  a  dis- 
appointment." 

"  Suppose  I  send  her  a  note,  stating  that  you  have 
given  me  some  encouragement  of  assuming  this  impor- 
tant duty,  but  that  you  could  not  think  of  deciding 
without  showing  a  grateful  deference  to  her  wishes?" 

"  That  will  be  just  the  thing.  We  shall  get  a  reply 
to-morrow."  With  to-morrow  came  the  following  note  :— 

"  My  Dear  Aunt  Frances : — Your  favour  of  yester- 
day took  us  a  little  by  surprise.  I  must  own  I  had 
promised  myself  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  the  society 
of  our  Mary ;  but  since  she  is  inclined  (and  I  think  it  ia 
very  noble  in  her)  to  foster  with  the  dew  of  her  youth 
the  graceful  but  fallen  stem  that  lent  beauty  to  us  all,  I 
cannot  say  a  word  to  prevent  it.  Indeed,  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me,  since  the  receipt  of  your  note,  that  wa 
sha'l  need  the  room  we  had  reserved  for  Mary,  to  ac- 
commodate little  Willie,  Mr.  Howard's  pet  nephew,  who 


108  TWO    RIDES    WITH    THE   DOCTOR. 

has  the  misfortune  to  be  lame.  His  physicians  insist 
upon  cc  intry  air,  and  a  room  upon  the  first  floor.  So 
tell  Mary  I  love  her  a  thousand  times  better  for  her 
eelf-sacrifice,  and  will  try  to  imitate  it  by  doing  all  in 
my  power  for  the  poor  little  invalid  that  is  coming. 
"  With  the  kindest  regards,  I  remain 

"  Your  affectionate  niece, 

"  KATE  HOWARD." 

"Are  you  now  decided,  Mary  ?"  asked  Aunt  Frances, 
sifter  their  joint  perusal  of  the  letter. 

"Not  only  decided,  but  grateful.  I  have  lost  my 
fortune,  it  is  true ;  but  while  youth  and  health  remain,  I 
shall  hardly  feel  tempted  to  taste  the  luxuries  of  de- 
pendence." 


TWO  RIDES  WITH  THE  DOCTOR. 

JUMP  in,  if  you  would  ride  with  the  doctor.  You 
have  no  time  to  lose,  for  the  patient  horse,  thankful  for 
the  unusual  blessing  which  he  has  enjoyed  in  obtaining 
a  good  night's  rest,  stands  early  at  the  door  this  rainy 
morning,  and  the  worthy  doctor  himself  is  already  in 
his  seat,  and  is  hastily  gathering  up  the  re"ins,  for  there 
have  been  no  less  than  six  rings  at  his  bell  within  as 
many  minutes,  and  immediate  attendance  is  requested  in 
several  different  places. 

It  is  not  exactly  the  day  one  might  select  for  a  ride, 
for  the  storm  is  a  regular  north-easter,  and  your  hands 


TWO    RIDES   -V/ITH   THE   DOCTOR.  199 

and  feet  are  benumbed  with  the  piercing  cold  wind,  while 
yim  are  drenched  with  the  driving  rain. 

But  the  doctor  is  used  to  all  this,  and,  unmindful  of 
wind  and  rain,  he  urges  his  faithful  horse  to  his  utmost 
speed,  eager  to  reach  the  spot  where  the  most  pressing 
duty  calls.  He  has  at  least  the  satisfaction  of  being  wel 
come.  Anxious  eyes  are  watching  for  his  well-known 
vehicle  from  the  window ;  the  door  is  opened  ere  he  puts 
his  hand  upon  the  lock,  and  the  heartfelt  exclamation, 

"  Oh,  doctor,  I  am  so  thankful  you  have  come  !"  greets 
him  as  he  enters. 

Hastily  the  anxious  father  leads  the  way  to  the  room 
where  his  half-distracted  wife  is  bending  in  agony  over 
their  first-born,  a  lovely  infant  of  some  ten  months,  who 
is  now  in  strong  convulsions.  The  mother  clasps  her 
hands,  and  raises  her  eyes  in  gratitude  to  heaven,  as  the 
doctor  enters, — he  is  her  only  earthly  hope.  Prompt  and 
efficient  remedies  are  resorted  to,  and  in  an  hour  the 
restored  little  one  is  sleeping  tranquilly  in  his  mother's 
arms. 

The  doctor  departs  amid  a  shower  of  blessings,  and 
again  urging  his  horse  to  speed,  reaches  his  second  place 
of  destination.  It  is  a  stately  mansion.  A  spruce 
waiter  hastens  tc  answer  his  ring,  but  the  lady  herself 
meets  him  as  he  enters  the  hall. 

"  We  have  been  expecting  you  anxiously,  doctor.  Mr. 
Palmer  is  quite  ill,  this  morning.  Walk  up,  if  you 
please." 

The  doctor  obeys,  and  is  eagerly  welcomed  by  his  pa- 
tient. 

"  Do  exert  your  utmost  skill  to  save  me  from  a  fever, 


200  TWO    RIDES    WITH    THE    DOCTOR. 

doctor.  The  symptoms  are  much  the  same  which  I  ex- 
perienced last  year,  previous  to  that  long  siege  with  the 
typhoid.  It  distracts  me  to  think  of  it.  At  this  par- 
ticular juncture  I  should  lose  thousands  by  absence  froia 
rny  business." 

The  doctor's  feelings  are  enlisted, — his  feelings  of 
humanity  and  his  feelings  of  self-interest,  for  doctors 
must  live  as  well  as  other  people;  and  the  thought  of 
the  round  sum  which  would  find  its  way  to  his  own  purse, 
if  he  could  but  succeed  in  preventing  the  loss  of  thou- 
sands to  his  patient,  was  by  no  means  unpleasing. 

The  most  careful  examination  of  the  symptoms  is 
made,  and  well-chosen  prescriptions  given.  He  is  re- 
quested to  call  as  often  as  possible  through  the  day, 
which  he  readily  promises  to  do,  although  press  of  busi- 
ness and  a  pouring  rain  render  it  somewhat  difficult. 

The  result,  however,  will  be  favourable  to  his  wishes. 
His  second  and  third  call  give  him  great  encouragement, 
and  on  the  second  day  after  the  attack,  the  merchant 
returns  to  his  counting-room  exulting  in  the  skill  of  his 
physician. 

But  we  must  resume  our  ride.  On,  on  goes  the  doc- 
tor ;  rain  pouring,  wind  blowing,  mud  splashing.  Ever 
and  anon  he  checks  his  horse's  speed,  at  his  various  posts 
of  duty.  High  and  low,  rich  and  poor  anxiously  await 
his  coming.  He  may  not  shrink  from  the  ghastly  spec- 
tacle of  human  suffering  and  death.  Humanity,  in  ita 
most  loathsome  forms,  is  presented  to  him. 

The  nearest  and  dearest  may  turn  away  in  grief  and 
horror,  but  the  doctor  blenches  not. 

Again  we  are  digressing.     The  doctor's  well-known 


TWO    RIDES    WITH    THE    DOCTOR.  201 

tap  is  heard  at  the  door  of  a  sick-room,  where  for  many 
days  he  has  been  in  constant  attendance.  Noiselessly 
he  is  admitted.  The  young  huaband  kneels  at  the  side 
of  the  bed  where  lies  his  dearest  earthly  treasure.  The 
calm  but  deeply-afflicted  mother  advances  to  the  doctor, 
and  whispers  fearfully  low, 

"  There  is  a  change.  She  sleeps.  Is  it — oh  !  can  it 
be  the  sleep  of  leath  ?" 

Quickly  the  physician  is  at  the  bedside,  and  anxiously 
bending  over  his  patient. 

Another  moment  and  he  grasps  the  husband's  hand, 
while  the  glad  words  "  She  will  live,"  burst  from  his 
lips. 

We  may  not  picture  forth  their  joy.  On,  on,  we  are 
riding  with  the  doctor.  Once  more  we  are  at  his  own 
door.  Hastily  he  enters,  and  takes  up  the  slate  contain- 
ing the  list  of  calls  during  his  absence.  At  half  a  dozen 
places  his  presence  is  requested  without  delay. 

A  quick  step  is  heard  on  the  stairs,  and  his  gentle  wife 
hastens  to  welcome  him. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come ;  how  wet  you  must 
be!" 

The  parlour  door  is  thrown  open.  What  a  cheerful 
fire,  and  how  inviting  look  the  dressing-gown  and  the 
nicely  wanned  slippers  ! 

"  Take  oif  your  wet  clothes,  dear;  dinner  will  soon  be 
ready,"  urges  the  wife. 

"  It  is  impossible,  Mary.  There  are  several  places 
to  visit  yet.  Nay,  never  look  so  sad.  Have  not  eix 
years  taught  you  what  a  doctor's  wife  must  expect?" 

"I  shall  never  feel  eassy  when  you  are  working  so 


202  TWO   SIDES    WITH    THE    DOCTOR. 

hard,  Henry;  but  surely  you  will  take  a  cup  of  hot 
coffee ;  I  have  it  all  ready.  It  will  delay  you  but  a  mo- 
ment." 

The  doctor  consents ;  and  while  the  coffee  is  prepar- 
ing, childish  voices  are  heard,  and  little  feet  come 
quickly  through  the  hall. 

"  Papa  has  come  home  !"  shouts  a  manly  little  fellow 
of  four  years,  as  he  almost  drags  his  younger  sister  to 
the  spot  where  he  has  heard  his  father's  voice. 

The  father's  heart  is  gladdened  by  their  innocent  joy, 
as  they  cling  around  him  ;  but  there  is  no  time  for  delay. 
A  kiss  to  each,  one  good  jump  for  the  baby,  the  cup  of 
coffee  is  hastily  swallowed,  the  wife  receives  her  embrace 
with  tearful  eyes,  and  as  the  doctor  springs  quickly  into 
his  chaise,  and  wheels  around  the  corner,  she  sighs 
deeply  as  sne  looks  at  the  dressing-gown  and  slippers, 
and  thinks  of  the  favourite  dish  which  she  had  prepared 
for  dinner ;  and  now  it  may  be  night  before  he  cornea 
again.  But  she  becomes  more  cheerful  as  she  remem- 
bers that  a  less  busy  season  will  come,  and  then  they 
will  enjoy  the  recompense  of  this  hard  labour. 

The  day  wears  away,  and  at  length  comes  the  happy 
hour  when  gown  and  slippers  may  be  brought  into  requi 
sition.  The  storm  still  rages  without,  but  there  is  quiet 
happiness  within.  The  babies  are  sleeping,  and  father 
and  mother  are  in  that  snug  little  parlour,  with  its 
bright  light  and  cheerful  fire.  The  husband  is  not  too 
weary  to  read  aloud,  and  the  wife  listens,  while  her 
hands  are  busied  with  woman's  never-ending  work. 

But  their  happiness  is  of  short  duration.  A  loud  ring 
at  the  bell. 


TWO    HIDES    WITH   THE    DOCTOR.  203 

"  Patient  in  the  office,  sir,"  announces  the  attendant. 

The  doctor  utters  a  half-impatient  exclamation ;  but 
the  wife  expresses  only  thankfulness  that  it  is  an  office 
patient. 

"  Fine  night  for  a  sick  person  to  come  out !"  muttere.1 
.  (he  doctor,  as  he  unwillingly  lays  down  his  bo  k,  and 
lises  from  the  comfortable  lounge. 

But  he  is  himself  again  by  the  time  his  hand  is  on  the 
door  of  the  office,  and  it  is  with  real  interest  that  he 
greets  his  patient. 

"  Tooth  to  be  extracted  ?  Sit  down,  sir.  Here,  Biddy, 
bring  water  and  a  brighter  lamp.  Have  courage,  sir ; 
one  moment  will  end  it." 

The  hall  door  closes  on  the  relieved  sufferer,  and  the 
doctor  throws  himself  again  on  the  lounge,  and  smilingly 
puts  the  bright  half  dollar  in  his  pocket. 

"  That  was  not  so  bad,  after  all,  Mary.  I  like  to 
make  fifty  cents  in  that  way." 

"  Cruel  creature  !     Do  not  mention  it." 

"  Cruel !  The  poor  man  blessed  me  in  his  heart. 
Did  I  not  relieve  him  from  the  most  intense  suffering  ?" 

"  Well,  never  mind.  I  hope  there  will  be  no  more 
calls  to-night." 

"So  do  I.  Where  is  the  book?  I  will  read  again." 
No  more  interruptions.  Another  hour,  and  all  are 
sleeping  quietly. 

Midnight  has  passed,  when  the  sound  of  the  bell  falls 
on  the  doctor's  wakeful  car.  As  quickly  as  possible  he 
answers  it  in  person,  but  another  peal  is  heard  ere  ha 
reaches  the  door. 


204  TWO   RIDES   WITH   THE   DOCTOR. 

A  gentleman  to  whose  family  he  has  frequently  been 
called,  appears. 

"  Oh  !  doctor,  lose  not  a  moment;  my  little  Willie  is 
dying  with  the  croup  !" 

There  is  no  resisting  this  appeal.  The  still  wet  ovnr- 
coat  and  hoots  are  drawn  on;  medicine  case  hastily 
seized,  and  the  doctor  rushes  forth  again  into  the  storm. 

Pity  for  his  faithful  horse  induces  him  to  traverse  the 
distance  on  foot,  and  a  rapid  walk  of  half  a  mile  brings 
him  to  the  house. 

It  was  no  needless  alarm.  The  attack  was  a  severe 
one,  and  all  his  skill  was  required  to  save  the  life  of  the 
little  one.  It  was  daylight  ere  he  could  leave  him  with 
safety.  Then,  as  he  was  about  departing  for  his  own 
home,  an  express  messenger  arrived  to  entreat  him  to 
go  immediately  to  another  place  nearly  a  mile  in  an 
opposite  direction. 

Breakfast  was  over  ere  he  reached  his  own  house. 
His  thoughtful  wife  suggested  a  nap ;  but  a  glance  at 
the  already  well-filled  slate  showed  this  to  be  out  of  the 
question.  A  hasty  toilet,  and  still  hastier  breakfast, 
and  the  doctor  is  again  seated  in  his  chaise,  going  on 
his  accustomed  rounds ;  but  we  will  not  now  accompany 
him. 

Let  us  pass  over  two  or  three  months,  and  invite  our- 
selves to  another  ride.  One  pleasant  morning,  when 
less  pressed  with  business,  he  walks  leisurely  from  the 
house  to  the  chaise,  and  gathering  up  the  reins  with  a 
remarkably  thoughtful  air,  rides  slowly  down  the  street. 

But  few  patients  are  on  his  list,  and  these  are  first 
Attended  to. 


TWO    RIDES    WITH    THE    DOCTOR.  205 

The  doctor  then  pauses  for  consideration.  He  has 
set  apart  this  day  for  collecting.  Past  experience  has 
taught  him  that  the  task  is  by  no  means  an  agreeable 
one.  It  is  necessary,  however — absolutely  so — for,  as 
we  have  said  before,  doctors  must  live  as  well  as  other 
people ;  their  house-rent  must  be  paid,  food  and  clothing 
roust  be  supplied. 

A  moment  only  pauses  the  doctor,  and  then  we  are 
again  moving  onward.  A  short  ride  brings  us  to  the 
door  of  a  pleasantly-situated  house.  We  remember  it 
well.  It  is  where  the  little  one  lay  in  fits  when  we  last 
rode  out  with  the  doctor.  We  recall  the  scene:  the 
convulsed  countenance  of  the  child ;  the  despair  of  the 
parents,  and  the  happiness  which  succeeded  when  their 
beloved  one  was  restored  to  them. 

Surely  they  will  now  welcome  the  doctor.  Thankfully 
will  they  pay  the  paltry  sum  he  claims  as  a  recompense 
for  his  services.  We  are  more  confident  than  the  doctor. 
Experience  is  a  sure  teacher.  The  door  does  not  now 
fly  open  at  his  approach.  He  gives  his  name  to  the  girl 
who  answers  the  bell,  and  in  due  time  the  lady  of  the 
house  appears. 

"Ah!  doctor,  how  do  you  do?  You  are  quite  a 
Stranger  !  Delightful  weather,"  &c. 

The  doctor  replies  politely,  and  inquires  if  her  hus- 
band is  in. 

"  Yes,  he  is  in ;  but  I  regret  to  say  he  is  exceedingly 
engaged  this  morning.  His  business  is  frequently  of  :» 
nature  which  cannot  suffer  interruption.  He  would  have 
be<ni  pleased  to  have  seen  you." 


206  TWO   RIDES    WITH   THE   DOCTOR. 

The  doctor's  pocket-book  is  produced,  and  the  neatly 
drawn  bill  is  presented. 

"  If  convenient  to  Mr.  Lawton,  the  amount  would  be 
acceptably." 

"  I  will  hand  it  to  him  when  he  is  at  leisure.  He  will 
attend  to  it,  no  doubt." 

The  doctor  sighs  involuntarily  as  he  recalls  similar 
indefinite  promises ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  insist  upon 
interrupting  important  business.  He  ventures  another 
remark,  implying  that  prompt  payment  would  oblige 
him  ;  bows,  and  retires. 

On,  on  goes  the  faithful  horse.  Where  is  to  be  our 
next  stopping-place?  At  the  wealthy  merchant's,  who 
owed  so  much  to  the  doctor's  skill  some  two  months 
since.  Even  the  doctor  feels  confidence  here.  Thou- 
sands saved  by  the  prevention  of  that  fever.  Thirty 
dollars  is  not  to  be  thought  of  in  comparison. 

All  is  favourable.  Mr.  Palmer  is  at  home,  and  receives 
his  visiter  in  a  cordial  manner.  Compliments  are  passed. 
Now  for  the  bill. 

"  Our  little  account,  Mr.  Palmer." 

"  Ah  !  I  recollect ;  I  am  a  trifle  in  your  debt.  Let  us 
see :  thirty  dollars  !  So  much  ?  I  had  forgotten  that 
we  had  needed  medical  advice,  excepting  in  my  slight 
indisposition  a  few  weeks  since." 

Slight  indisposition!  What  a  memory  some  peopla 
are  blessed  with ! 

The  doctor  smothers  his  rising  indignation. 

"  Eight  visits,  Mr.  Palmer,  and  at  such  a  distance 
You  will  find  the  charge  a  moderate  one." 

"Oh'  very  well;   I  dare  say  it  is  all  right.     I  an 


TWO    RJDKS    WITH    THE    DOCTOR.  207 

sorry  I  have  not  the  money  for  you  to-day,  doctor. 
Very  tight  just  at  present ;  you  know  how  it  is  with 
m«n  of  business." 

"  It  would  be  a  great  accommodation  if  I  could  have 
!t  at  once." 

"  Impossible,  doctor  I  I  wish  I  could  oblige  you.  In 
a  week,  or  fortnight,  at  the  farthest,  I  will  call  at  your 
office." 

A  week  or  fortnight  I  The  disappointed  doctor  once 
more  seats  himself  in  his  chaise,  and  urges  his  horse  to 
speed.  He  is  growing  desperate  now,  and  is  eager  to 
reach  his  next  place  of  destination.  Suddenly  he  checks 
the  horse.  A  gentleman  is  passing  whom  he  recognises 
as  the  young  husband  whose  idolized  wife  has  so  lately 
been  snatched  from  the  borders  of  the  grave. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Wilton ;  I  was  about  calling  at 
your  house." 

"  Pray,  do  so,  doctor ;  Mrs.  Wilton  will  be  pleased  to 
see  you." 

"  Thank  you ;  but  my  call  was  on  business,  to-day.  I 
believe  I  must  trouble  you  with  my  bill  for  attendance 
during  your  wife's  illness." 

"  Ah  \  yes  ;  I  recollect.  Have  you  it  with  you  ?  Fifty 
dollars  I  Impossible  I  Why,  she  was  not  ill  above  three 
weeks." 

"Very  true;  but  think  of  the  urgency  of  the  case. 
Three  or  four  calls  during  twenty-four  hours  were  neces- 
sary, and  two  whole  nights  I  passed  at  her  bedside." 

"And  yet  the  charge  appears  to  me  enormous.  Call 
it  forty,  and  I  will  hand  you  the  amount  at  once  " 


208  TWO   RIDES    WITH    THE    DOCTOR. 

The  doctor  hesitates.  "I  cannot  afford  to  lose  ten 
dollars,  which  is  justly  my  due,  Mr.  Wilton." 

"  Suit  yourself,  doctor.  Take  forty,  and  receipt  tho 
bill,  or  stick  to  your  first  charge,  and  wait  till  I  am 
ready  to  pay  it.  Fifty  dollars  is  no  trifle,  I  can  tell 
you." 

And  this  is  the  man  whose  life  might  have  been  a 
blank  but  for  the  doctor's  skill ! 

Again  we  are  travelling  onward.  The  unpaid  bill  is 
left  in  Mr.  Wilton's  hand,  and  yet  the  doctor  half 
regrets  that  he  had  not  submitted  to  the  imposition. 
Money  is  greatly  needed  just  now,  and  there  seems  little 
prospect  of  getting  any. 

Again  and  again  the  horse  is  stopped  at  some  well- 
known  post.  A  poor  welcome  has  the  doctor  to-day. 
Some  bills  are  collected,  but  their  amount  is  discour- 
agingly  small.  Everybody  appears  to  feel  astonishingly 
healthy,  and  have  almost  forgotten  that  they  ever  had 
occasion  for  a  physician.  There  is  one  consolation,  how- 
ever: sickness  will  come  again,  and  then,  perhaps,  the 
unpaid  bill  may  be  recollected.  Homeward  goes  the 
doctor.  He  is  naturally  of  a  cheerful  disposition  ;  but 
now  he  is  seriously  threatened  with  a  fit  of  the  blues. 
A  list  of  calls  upon  his  slate  has  little  effect  to  raise  his 
spirits.  "All  work  and  no  pay,"  he  mutters  to  himeelf, 
as  he  puts  on  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers;  and, 
throwing  himself  upon  the  lounge,  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
little  ones,  while  he  indulges  in  a  revery  as  to  the  best 
mode  of  paying  the  doctor. 


KEEP   IN    STEP. 


Tiuote  who  would  walk  together  must  keep  in  step. — OLD  P&orm 

AT,  the  world  keeps  moving  forward, 

Like  an  army  marching  by  ; 
Heir  you  not  its  heavy  footfall, 

That  resoundeth  to  the  sky  ? 
Some  bold  spirits  bear  the  banner — 

Souls  of  sweetness  chant  the  song,— 
Lips  of  energy  and  fervour 

Make  the  timid-hearted  strong  1 
Like  brave  soldiers  we  march  forward  ; 

If  you  linger  or  turn  back, 
You  must  look  to  get  a  jostling 

While  you  stand  upon  our  track. 
Keep  in  step. 

My  good  neighbour,  Master  Standstill, 

Gazes  on  it  as  it  goes ; 
Not  quite  sure  but  he  is  dreaming, 

In  his  afternoon's  repose  ! 
"  Nothing  good,"  he  says,  "  can  issue 

From  this  endless  moving  on  ; 
Ancient  laws  and  institutions 

Are  decaying,  or  are  gone. 
We  are  rushing  on  to  ruin, 

With  our  mad,  new-fangled  ways." 
While  he  speaks  a  thousand  voices, 

As  the  heart  of  one  man,  says — 
"  Keep  in  step  !" 

Gentle  neighbour,  will  you  join  us, 

Or  return  to  "  good  old  ways  f" 
Take  again  the  fig-leaf  apron 

Of  Old  Adam's  ancient  days  ; — 
14 


210  KEEP  IN    STEP. 

Or  become  a  hardy  Briton- 
Beard  the  lion  in  his  lair, 

And  lie  down  in  dainty  slumber 

Wrapped  in  skins  of  shaggy  bear,— 

Hear  the  hut  amid  the  forest, 
Skim  the  wave  in  light  canoe? 

Ah,  I  aee  !  you  do  not  like  it. 

Then  if  these  "  old  ways"  won't  do, 
Keep  in  step. 

Be  assured,  good  Master  Standstill, 

All-wise  Providence  designed 
Aspiration  and  progression 

For  the  yearning  human  mind. 
Generations  left  their  blessings, 

In  the  relics  of  their  skill, 
Generations  yet  are  longing 

For  a  greater  glory  still ; 
And  the  shades  of  our  forefathers 

Are  not  jealous  of  our  deed — 
We  but  follow  where  they  beckon, 

We  but  go  where  they  do  lead  1 
Keep  in  step. 

One  detachment  of  our  army 

May  encamp  upon  the  hill, 
While  another  in  the  valley 

May  enjoy  its  own  sweet  will ; 
This,  may  answer  to  one  watchword. 

That,  may  echo  to  another ; 
But  in  unity  and  concord, 

They  discern  that  each  is  brother' 
Breast  to  breast  they're  marching  onward, 

In  a  good  now  peaceful  wav ; 
You'll  be  jostled  if  you  hinder, 

So  don't  offer  let  or  stay — 
Keep  in  step. 


JOHNNY    COLE. 

"I  GUESS  we  will  have  to  put  out  our  Johnny,"  said 
Mrs.  Cole,  with  a  sigh,  as  she  drew  closer  to  the  fire, 
one  cold  day  in  autumn.  This  remark  was  addressed 
to  her  husband,  a  sleepy,  lazy-looking  man,  who  waa 
stretched  on  a  bench,  with  his  eyes  half  closed.  The 
wife,  with  two  little  girls  of  eight  and  ten,  were  knitting 
as  fast  as  their  fingers  could  fly ;  the  baby  was  sound 
asleep  in  the  cradle ;  while  Johnny,  a  boy  of  thirteen, 
and  a  brother  of  four,  were  seated  on  the  wide  hearth 
making  a  snare  for  rabbits.  The  room  they  occupied 
was  cold  and  cheerless ;  the  warmth  of  the  scanty  fire 
being  scarcely  felt ;  yet  the  floor,  and  every  article  of 
furniture,  mean  as  they  were,  were  scrupulously  neat  and 
clean. 

The  appearance  of  this  family  indicated  that  they 
were  very  poor.  They  were  all  thin  and  pale,  really 
for  want  of  proper  food,  and  their  clothes  had  been 
patched  until  it  was  difficult  to  decide  what  the  original 
fabric  had  been ;  yet  this  very  circumstance  spoke  vol- 
umes in  favour  of  the  mother.  She  was  a  woman  of 
great  energy  of  character,  unfortunately  united  to  a  man 
whose  habits  were  such,  that,  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
time,  he  was  a  dead  weight  upon  her  hands ;  although 
not  habitually  intemperate,  he  was  indolent  and  good- 
for-nothing  to  a  degree,  lying  in  the  sun  half  his  time, 
when  the  weather  was  warm,  and  never  doing  a  stroke 
of  work  until  driven  to  it  by  the  pangs  of  hunger. 


212  JOHNNY   COLE. 

As  for  ;he  wife,  by  taking  in  sewing,  knitting,  and 
spinning  f  >r  the  farmers'  families  in  the  neighbourhood, 
she  managed  to  pay  a  rent  of  twenty  dollars  for  the 
cabin  in  which  they  lived  ;  while  she  and  Johnny,  with 
what  assistance  they  could  occasionally  get  from  Jerry, 
her  husband,  tilled  the  half  acre  of  ground  attached ; 
and  the  vegetables  thus  obtained,  were  their  main  depend- 
nnce  during  the  long  winter  just  at  hand.  Having  thus 
introduced  the  Coles  to  our  reader,  we  will  continue  the 
conversation. 

"  I  guess  we  will  have  to  put  out  Johnny,  and  you 
will  try  and  help  us  a  little  more,  Jerry,  dear." 

"  Why,  what's  got  into  the  woman  now?"  muttered 
Jerry,  stretching  his  arms,  and  yawning  to  the  utmost 
capacity  of  his  mouth.  The  children  laughed  at  their 
father's  uncouth  gestures,  and  even  Mrs.  Cole's  serious 
face  relaxed  into  a  smile,  as  she  answered, 

"  Don't  swallow  us  all,  and  I  will  tell  you.  The  win- 
ter is  beginning  early,  and  promises  <to  be  cold.  Our 
potatoes  didn't  turn  out  as  well  as  I  expected,  and  the 
truth  is,  we  cannot  get  along  so.  We  won't  have  victuals 
to  last  us  half  the  time ;  and,  manage  as  I  will,  I  can't 
much  more  than  pay  the  rent,  I  get  so  little  for  the  kind 
of  work  I  do.  Now,  if  Johnny  gets  a  place,  it  will  make 
one  less  to  provide  for ;  and  he  will  be  learning  to  do 
something  for  himself." 

"  Yes,  but  mother,"  said  the  boy.  moving  close  to  her 
side,  and  laying  his  head  on  her  knee,  "  yes,  but  who'll 
help  you  when  I  am  gone  ?  Who'll  dig  the  lot,  and  hoe, 
and  cut  the  wood,  and  carry  the  water  ?  You  can't  go 


JOHNNY    COLE.  213 

away  down  to  the  spring  in  the  deep  snow.  And  who'll 
make  the  fire  in  the  cold  mornings  ?" 

The  mother  looked  sorry  enough,  as  her  darling  boy 
—for  he  was  the  object  around  which  the  fondest  affec- 
tions of  her  heart  had  entwined  themselves — she  looked 
sorry  enough,  as  he  enumerated  the  turns  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  doing  for  her  ;  but,  woman-like,  she  could  suffer 
and  be  still;  so  sh«  answered  'heerfully, 

"  May  be  father  will,  dear ;  and  when  you  grow 
bigger,  and  learn  how  to  do  everything,  you'll  be  such  a 
help  to  us  all." 

"  Don't  depend  on  me,"  said  Jerry,  now  arousing 
himself  and  sauntering  to  the  fire  ;  "  I  hardly  ever  feel 
well," — complaining  was  Jerry's  especial  forte,  an  excuce 
for  all  his  laziness ;  yet  his  appetite  never  failed  ;  and 
when,  as  was  sometimes  the  case,  one  of  the  neighbours 
sent  a  small  piece  of  meat,  or  any  little  article  of  food 
to  his  wife,  under  the  plea  of  ill  health  he  managed  to 
appropriate  nearly  the  whole  of  it.  He  was  selfishness 
embodied,  and  a  serious  injury  to  his  family,  as  few 
cared  to  keep  him  up  in  his  laziness. 

One  evening,  a  few  days  later,  Mrs.  Cole,  who  had 
been  absent  several  hours,  came  in  looking  very  tired, 
and  after  laying  aside  her  old  bonnet  and  shawl,  in- 
formed them  that  she  had  obtained  a  place  for  Johnny. 
It  was  four  miles  distant,  and  the  farmer's  man  would 
stop  for  him  on  his  way  from  town,  the  next  afternoon. 
What  a  beautiful  object  was  farmer  Watkins's  homestead, 
lying  as  it  did  on  the  sunny  slope  of  a  hill ;  its  gray 
stone  walls,  peeping  out  from  between  the  giant  tree.' 
that  overshadowed  it,  while  everything  around  an  i  about' 


214  JOHNNY    COLE. 

gave  evidence  of  abundance  and  comfort.  The  thrifty 
orchard  ;  the  huge  barn  with  its  overflowing  granaries ; 
the  sleek,  well-fed  cattle;  even  the  low-roofed  spring- 
house,  with  its  superabundance  of  shining  pails  and 
pans,  formed  an  item  which  could  hardly  be  dispensed 
with,  in  the  tout  ensemble  of  this  pleasant  home. 

Farmer  Watkins  was  an  honest,  hard-working  man, 
somewhat  past  middle  age,  with  a  heart  not  naturally 
devoid  of  kindness,  but,  where  his  hirelings  were  con- 
cerned, so  strongly  encrusted  with  a  layer  of  habits,  that 
they  acted  as  an  effectual  check  upon  his  better  feelings. 
His  family  consisted  of  a  wife,  said  to  be  a  notable 
manager,  and  five  or  six  children,  the  eldest,  a  son,  at 
college.  In  this  household,  work,  work,  was  the  order 
of  the  day ;  the  farmer  himself,  with  his  great  brown 
fists,  set  the  example,  and  the  others,  willing  or  unwill- 
ing, were  obliged  to  follow  his  lead.  He  had  agreed  to 
take  John  Cole,  as  he  said,  more  to  get  rid  of  his 
mother's  importunities,  than  for  any  benefit  he  expected 
to  derive  from  him ;  and  when  remonstrated  with  by  his 
wife  for  his  folly  in  giving  her  the  trouble  of  another 
brat,  he  answered  shortly:  "Never  fear,  I'll  get  the 
worth  of  his  victuals  and  clothes  out  of  him."  Johnny 
was  to  have  his  boarding,  clothes,  and  a  dollar  a  month, 
for  two  years.  This  dollar  a  month  was  the  great  item 
in  Mrs.  Cole's  calculations ;  twelve  dollars  a  year,  she 
argued,  would  almost  pay  her  rent,  and  when  the  tears 
stood  in  Johnny's  great  brown  eyes  (for  he  was  a  pretty, 
gentle-hearted  boy),  as  he  was  bidding  them  all  good- 
bye, and  kissing  the  baby  over  and  over  again,  she  told 
him  abfrut  thf  money  he  vould  earn,  and  nervtfd  hia 


JOHNNY   COLE.  215 

littlt  heart  with  her  glowing  representations,  until  he 
was  able  to  choke  back  the  tears,  and  leave  home  almost 
cheerfully. 

Horn* — yes,  it  was  home ;  for  they  had  much  to  redeem 
the  miseries  of  want  within  those  bare  cabin  walls,  for 
gentle  htarts  and  kindly  smiles  were  there.  There 

*•  The  mother  sang  at  the  twilight  fall, 
To  the  babe  half  slumbering  on  her  knee." 

There  his  brother  and  sisters  played ;  there  his  associa- 
tions, his  hcpes,  his  wishes,  Avere  all  centered.  When  he 
arrived  at  farmer  Watkins's,  and  was  sent  into  the 
large  carpe.;ed  kitchen,  everything  was  so  unlike  this 
home,  that  his  fortitude  almost  gave  way,  and  it  was 
as  much  as  he  could  do,  as  he  told  his  mother  afterwards, 
"  to  keep  from  bursting  right  out."  Mrs.  Watkina 
looked  very  cross,  nor  did  she  notice  him,  except  to 
order  him  to  stand  out  of  the  way  of  the  red-armed  girl 
who  was  preparing  supper  and  placing  it  on  a  table  in 
the  ample  apartment.  Johnny  looked  with  amazement 
at  the  great  dishes  of  meat,  and  plates  of  hot  biscuit, 
but  the  odour  of  the  steaming  coffee,  and  the  heat,  were 
almost  too  much  for  him,  as  he  had  eaten  nothing  since 
morning,  for  he  was  too  sorry  to  leave  home  to  care  about 
dinner.  The  girl,  noticing  that  his  pale  face  grew  paler, 
laucrhino-lv  drew  her  mistress's  attention  to  "  master's 

O  O   J 

new  boy." 

"  Go  out  and  bring  in  some  wood  for  the  stove,"  said 
Mrs.  Watkins,  sharply ;  "  the  air  will  do  you  good." 

Johnny  went  out,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  felt  revived. 
Looking  about,  he  soon  found  the  wood-shed ;  there  was 


216  JOHNNY   COLE. 

plenty  of  wood,  but  none  cut  of  a  suitable  length  ;  it  was 
all  in  cord  sticks.  Taking  an  axe,  he  chopped  an  arm- 
ful, and  on  taking  it  into  the  house,  found  the  family 
had  finished  their  suppers ;  the  biscuits  and  meat  were 
all  eaten. 

"  Come  on  here  to  your  supper,"  said  the  maid-ser 
vant,  angrily.  "  What  have  you  been  doing  ?"  and, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  filled  a  tin  basin  with 
mush  and  skimmed  milk,  and  set  it  before  him.  The 
little  boy  did  not  attempt  to  speak,  but  sat  down  and  ate 
what  was  given  him.  Immediately  after,  he  was  sent 
into  a  loft  to  bed,  where  he  cried  himself  to  sleep.  Ah  ! 
when  we  count  the  thousand  pulsations  that  yield  pain 
or  pleasure  to  the  human  mind,  what  a  power  to  do  good 
or  evil  is  possessed  by  every  one;  and  how  often  would 
a  kind  word,  or  one  sympathizing  glance,  gladden  the 
hearts  of  those  thus  prematurely  forced  upon  the  anxie- 
ties of  the  world  !  But  how  few  there  are  who  care  to 
bestow  them  !  The  next  morning,  long  before  dawn,  the 
farmer's  family,  with  the  exception  of  the  younger 
children,  were  astir.  The  cattle  were  to  be  fed  and 
attended  to,  the  horses  harnessed,  the  oxen  yoked,  and 
great  was  the  bustle  until  all  hands  were  fairly  at  work. 
As  for  Johnny,  he  was  taken  into  the  field  to  assist  in 
husking  corn.  The  Avind  was  keen,  and  the  stalks,  from 
recent  rain,  were  wet,  and  filled  with  ice.  His  scanty 
clothing  scarcely  afforded  any  protection  from  the 
cold,  and  his  hands  soon  became  so  numb  that  he  couid 
Bcarcely  use  them ;  but,  if  he  stopped  one  moment  to 
rap  them,  or  breathe  upon  them,  in  the  hope  of  impart- 
ing some  warmth,  the  farmer,  who  was  close  at  hand,  in 


JOHNNY   COLE.  217 

•farm  woollen  clothes  and  thick  husking  gloves,  would  call 
it, 

"  Hurry  up,  hurry  up,  my  boy !  no  idle  bread  must  be 
eaten  here  !" 

And  bravely  did  Johnny  struggle  not  to  mind  the 
cold  and  pain,  but  it  would  not  do ;  he  began  to  cry, 
when  the  master,  who  never  thought  of  exercising  any- 
thing but  severity  towards  those  Mio  laboured  for  him, 
told  him  sternly  that  if  he  did  not  stop  his  bawling  in  a 
moment,  he  would  send  him  home.  This  was  enough 
for  Johnny;  anything  was  better  than  to  go  back  and 
be  a  burden  on  his  mother  ;  he  worked  to  the  best  of  his 
ability  until  noon.  At  noon,  he  managed  to  get  thoroughly 
warm,  behind  the  stove,  while  eating  his  dinner.  Still, 
the  sufferings  of  the  child,  with  his  insufficient  clothing, 
were  very  great;  but  nobody  seemed  to  think  of  the 
hired  boy  being  an  object  of  sympathy,  and  thus  it  con- 
tinued. The  rule  seemed  to  be  to  get  all  that  was 
possible  out  of  him,  and  his  little  frame  was  so  weary  at 
night,  that  he  had  hardly  time  to  feel  rested,  until  called 
with  the  dawn  to  renew  his  labour.  A  monthly  Sunday, 
however,  was  the  golden  period  looked  forward  to  in  his 
day-dreams,  for  it  had  been  stipulated  by  his  parent, 
that  on  Saturday  evening  every  four  weeks,  he  was  to 
come  home,  and  stay  all  the  next  day.  And  when  the 
time  arrived,  how  nimbly  did  he  get  over  the  ground  that 
stretched  between  him  and  the  goal  of  his  wishes !  How 
much  he  had  to  tell !  But  as  soon  as  he  began  to  com- 
plain, his  mother  would  say  cheerfully,  although  her 
Leart  bled  for  the  hardships  of  her  child, 

"  Never  mind,  you  will  get  used  to  work,  and  after 


218  JOHNXY   COLE. 

awhile,  when  yoa  grow  up,  you  can  rent  a  farm,  and 
take  me  to  keep  house  for  you." 

Th.s  was  the  impulse  that  prompted  to  action.  No 
one  can  be  utterly  miserable  who  has  a  hope,  even  a  re- 
mote one,  of  bettering  his  condition ;  and  with  a  motive 
such  as  this  to  cheer  him,  Johnny  persevered ;  young  as 
lie  was,  he  understood  the  necessity.  But  how  often, 
during  the  four  weary  weeks  that  succeeded,  did  the 
memory  of  the  Saturday  night  he  had  spent  at  home 
come  up  before  his  mental  vision  !  The  fresh  loaf  of  rye 
bread,  baked  in  honour  of  his  arrival,  and  eaten  for  sup- 
per, with  maple  molasses — the  very  molasses  he  had 
helped  to  boil  on  shares  with  Farmer  Thrifty 's  boys  in 
the  spring.  What  a  feast  they  had !  Then  the  long 
evening  afterwards,  when  the  blaze  of  the  hickory  fires 
lighted  up  the  timbers  of  the  old  cabin  with  a  mellow 
glow,  and  mother  looked  so  cheerful  and  smiled  so  kindly, 
as  she  sat  spinning  in  its  warmth  and  light.  And  how 
even  father  had  helped  to  pop  corn  in  the  iron  pot. 

Ah !  that  was  a  time  long  to  be  remembered ;  and 
he  had  ample  opportunity  to  draw  comparisons,  for  he 
often  thought  his  master  cared  more  for  his  cattle  than 
he  did  for  him,  and  it  is  quite  probable  he  did ;  for  while 
they  were  warmly  housed  he  was  needlessly  exposed,  and 
his  comfort  utterly  disregarded.  If  there  was  brush  to 
cut,  or  fence  to  make,  or  any  out-door  labour  to  perform, 
a  wet,  cold,  or  windy  day  was  sure  to  be  selected,  whilo 
in  fine  weather  the  wood  was  required  to  be  chopped, 
and,  generally  speaking,  all  the  work  that  could  be  done 
Under  shelter,  Yet  we  dare  say  Farmer  Watkins  never 


JOHNNY   COLE.  219 

thought  of  the  inhumanity  of  this,  or  the  advantage  he 
wouid  himself  derive  by  arranging  it  otherwise. 

John  Cole  had  been  living  out  perhaps  a  year.  Ho 
had  not  grown  much  in  this  period  ;  his  frame  had  al- 
ways been  slight,  and  his  sunken  cheeks  and  wasted 
limbs  spoke  of  the  hard  usage  and  suffering  of  his  pre- 
sent situation.  The  family  had  many  delicacies  for 
themselves,  but  the  work  boy  they  knew  never  was  used 
to  such  things,  and  they  were  indifferent  as  to  what  his 
fare  chanced  to  be.  Pie  generally  managed  to  satisfy 
the  cravings  of  hunger  on  the  coarse  food  given  him,  but 
that  was  all.  About  this  time  it  happened  that  the  far- 
mer was  digging  a  ditch,  and  as  he  was  afraid  winter 
would  set  in  before  it  was  completed,  Johnny- and  him- 
self were  at  work  upon  it  early  and  late,  notwithstand- 
ing the  wind  whistled,  and  it  was  so  cold  they  could 
hardly  handle  the  tools.  While  thus  employed,  it  chanced 
that  they  got  wet  to  the  skin  with  a  drizzling  rain,  and 
on  returning  to  the  house  the  farmer  changed  his  clothes, 
drank  some  hot  mulled  cider,  and  spent  the  remainder 
of  the  evening  in  his  high-backed  chair,  before  a  com- 
fortable fire ;  while  the  boy  was  sent  to  grease  a  wagon 
in  an  open  shed,  and  at  night  crept  to  his  straw  pallet, 
shaking  as  though  in  an  ague  fit.  The  next  morning  he 
was  in  a  high  fever,  and  with  many  a  "  wonder  of  what 
had  got  into  him,"  but  without  one  word  of  sympathy, 
or  any  other  manifestation  of  good-will,  he  was  sent 
home  to  his  mother.  Late  in  the  evening  of  the  samo 
day  a  compassionate  physician  was  surprised  to  see  a 
>•  »man  enter  his  office  ;  her  garments  wet  and  travel- 


220  JOHNNY   COLE. 

stained,  and,  with  streaming  eyes,  she  besought  him  j 
come  and  see  her  son. 

"  My  Johnny,  my  Johnny,  sir  !"  she  cried,  "  he  has 
been  raving  wild  all  day,  and  we  are  afraid  he  will  die.V 

Mistaking  the  cause  of  the  good  man's  hesitation,  she 
ad  Jed,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  grief,  "  Oh !  I  will  work  mv 
fingers  to  the  bone  to  pay  you,  sir,  if  you  will  only  come. 
We  live  in  the  Gap." 

A  few  inquiries  were  all  that  was  necessary  to  learn 
the  state  of  the  case.  The  benevolent  doctor  took  the 
woman  in  his  vehicle,  and  proceeded,  over  a  mountainous 
road  of  six  miles,  to  see  his  patient.  But  vain  was  the 
help  of  man  !  Johnny  continued  delirious ;  it  was  work, 
work,  always  at  work ;  and  pitiful  was  it  to  hear  his» 
complaints  of  being  cold  and  tired,  while  his  heart-broker* 
parent  hung  over  him,  and  denied  herself  the  necessa- 
ries of  life  to  minister  to  his  wants.  After  being  ill 
about  a  fortnight,  he  awoke  one  evening  apparently  free 
from  fever.  His  expression  was  natural,  but  he  seemed 
so  weak  he  could  not  speak.  His  mother,  with  a  heart 
overflowing  with  joy  at  the  change  she  imagined  favour- 
able, bent  over  him.  With  a  great  effort  he  placed  his 
arms  about  her  neck ;  she  kissed  his  pale  lips ;  a  smile 
of  strange  meaning  passed  over  his  face,  and  ere  she 
could  unwind  that  loving  clasp  her  little  Johnny  was  no 
more.  He  had  gone  where  the  wicked  cease  from 
troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest ;  but  her  hopes  were 
blasted;  her  house  was  left  unto  her  desolate;  and  aa 
she  watched,  through  the  long  hours  of  night,  beside  the 
dead  body,  it  was  to  our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven  her 
anguished  heart  poured  itself  out  in  prayer.  Think  of 


THE   THIEF  AND   HIS   BENEFACTOR.  221 

triis,  ye  rich  !  who  morning  and  evening  breathe  tho 
same  petition  by  your  own  hearthstones.  Think  of  it,  ye 
who  have  authority  to  oppress  !  Do  not  deprive  the  poor 
wan  or  woman  of  the  "  ewe  lamb"  that  is  their  sole  pos- 
session ;  and  remember  that  He  whose  ear  is  ever  open 
to  the  cry  of  the  distressed,  has  power  to  avenge  their 
cause. 


THE  THIEF  AND  HIS  BENEFACTOR. 

"CIRCUMSTANCES  made  me  what  I  am,"  said  a  con- 
demned criminal  to  a  benevolent  man  who  visited  him 
in  prison.  "I  was  driven  by  necessity  to  steal." 

"Not  so,"  replied  the  keeper,  who  was  standing  by. 
"  Rather  say,  that  your  own  character  made  the  circum- 
stances by  which  you  were  surrounded.  God  never 
places  upon  any  creature  the  necessity  of  breaking  his 
commandments.  You  stole,  because,  in  heart,  you  were 
a  thief." 

The  benevolent  man  reproved  the  keeper  for  what  ho 
called  harsh  words.  He  believed  that,  alone,  by  the 
force  of  external  circumstances,  men  were  made  crimi- 
nals. That,  if  society  were  differently  arranged,  there 
would  be  little  or  no  crime  in  the  world.  And  so  he 
made  interest  for  the  criminal,  and,  in  the  end,  secured 
his  release  from  prison.  Nor  did  his  benevolence  stop 
here.  He  took  the  man  into  his  service,  and  intrusted 
to  him  his  money  and  his  goods. 


222  THE   THIEF   AND    HIS    BENEFACTOR. 


"I  will  remove  from  him  all  temptation  to  steal,"  said 
he,  "  by  a  liberal  supply  of  his  wants." 

"  Have  you  a  wife  ?"  he  asked  of  the  mana  when  he 
took  him  from  prison. 

"No,"  was  replied. 

u  Nor  any  one  but  yourself  to  support  ?" 

"I  am  alone  in  the  world." 

"  You  have  received  a  good  education  ;  and  can  serve 
me  as  a  clerk.  I  therefore  take  you  into  my  employ- 
ment, at  a  fair  salary.  Will  five  hundred  dollars  be 
enough  ?" 

"  It  will  be  an  abundance,"  said  the  man,  with  evident 
surprise  at  an  offer  so  unexpectedly  liberal. 

"Very  well.     That  will  place  you  above  temptation." 

"And  I  will  be  innocent  and  happy.  You  are  my 
benefactor.  You  have  saved  me." 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  the  man  of  benevolence. 

And  so  he  intrusted  his  goods  and  his  money  to  the 
man  he  had  reformed  by  placing  him  in  different  circum- 
stances. 

But  it  is  in  the  heart  of  man  that  evil  lies  ;  and  from 
the  heart's  impulses  spring  all  our  actions.  That  must 
cease  to  be  a  bitter  fountain  before  it  can  send  forth 
sweet  water.  The  thief  was  a  thief  still.  Not  a  month 
elapsed  ere  he  was  devising  the  means  to  enable  him  to 
get  from  his  kind,  but  mistaken  friend,  more  than  the 
liberal  sum  for  which  he  had  agreed  to  serve  him.  lie 
coveted  his  neighbour's  goods  whenever  his  eyes  fell 
upon  them  ;  and  restlessly  sought  to  acquire  their  pos- 
session. In  order  to  make  more  sure  the  attainment  of 
his  ends,  he  affected  sentiments  of  morality,  and  even 


THE    THIEF   AND    HIS    BENEFA'  TOR.  223 

went  so  far  as  to  cover  his  purposes  by  a  show  of  reli- 
gion. And  thus  he  was  able  to  deceive  and  rob  his  kind 
friend. 

Time  went  on  ;  and  the  thief,  apparently  reformed  by 
a  change  of  relation  to  society,  continued  in  his  post  of 
responsibility.  How  it  was,  the  benefactor  could  not 
make  out;  but  his  affairs  gradually  became  less  pros- 
perous. He  made  investigations  into  his  business,  but 
was  unable  to  find  anything  wrong. 

"Are  you  aware  that  your  clerk  is  a  purchaser  of 
property  to  a  considerable  extent?"  said  a  mercantile 
friend  to  him  one  day. 

"  My  clerk  !  It  cannot  be.  His  income  is  only  five 
hundred  dollars  a  year." 

"  He  bought  a  piece  of  property  for  five  thousand  last 
week." 

"  Impossible  !" 

"  I  know  it  to  be  true.  Are  you  aware  that  he  was 
once  a  convict  in  the  State's  Prison?" 

"  Oh  yes.  I  took  him  from  prison  myself,  and  gave 
him  a  chance  for  his  life.  I  do  not  believe  in  hunting 
men  down  for  a  single  crime,  the  result  of  circumstances 
rather  than  a  bad  heart." 

"  A  truly  honest  man,  let  me  tell  you,"  replied  the 
merchant,  "will  be  honest  in  any  and  all  circumstances. 
And  a  rogue  will  be  a  rogue,  place  him  where  you  \*  ill. 
The  evil  is  radical,  and  must  be  cured  radically.  Your 
reformed  thief  has  robbed  you,  without  doubt." 

''•  I  have  reason  to  fear  that  he  has  been  most  ungrate- 
ful," replied  the  kind-hearted  man,  who,  with  the  harm- 
lessness  of  the  dove,  did  not  unite  the  wisdom  of  th« 
serpent. 


224  THE   THIEF   AND   HIS   BENEFACTOR. 

And  so  it  proved.  His  clerk  had  robbed  him  of  over 
twenty  thousand  dollars  in  less  than  five  years,  and  so 
sapped  the  foundations  of  his  prosperity,  that  he  reco- 
vered with  great  difficulty. 

"  You  told  me,  when  in  prison,"  said  the  wronged 
merchant  to  his  clerk,  "  that  circumstances  made  you 
what  you  were.  This  you  cannot  say  now." 

"  I  can,"  was  the  reply.  "  Circumstances  made  me 
poor,  and  I  desired  to  be  rich.  The  means  of  attaining 
wealth  were  placed  in -my  hands,  and  I  used  them.  Is 
it  strange  that  I  should  have  done  so  ?  It  is  this  social 
inequality  that  makes  crime.  Your  own  doctrine,  and 
I  subscribe  to  it  fully." 

"  Ungrateful  wretch !"  said  the  merchant,  indignantly, 
"  it  is  the  evil  of  your  own  heart  that  prompts  to  crime. 
You  would  be  a  thief  and  a  robber  if  you  possessed 
millions." 

And  he  again  handed  him  over  to  the  law,  and  let  the 
prison  walls  protect  society  from  his  depredations. 

No,  it  is  not  true  that  in  external  circumstances  Me 
the  origins  of  evil.  God  tempts  no  man  by  these.  In 
the  very  extremes  of  poverty  we  see  examples  of  ho- 
nesty ;  and  among  the  wealthiest,  find  those  who  covet 
their  neighbour's  goods,  and  gain  dishonest  possession 
thereof.  Reformers  must  seek  to  elevate  the  personal 
character,  if  they  would  regenerate  society.  To  accom- 
plish the  desired  good  by  a  different  external  arrange- 
ment, is  hopeless ;  for  in  the  heart  of  man  lies  the  evil, 
—there  is  the  fountain  from  which  flow  forth  the  bitter 
und  blighting  waters  of  crime. 


JOHN  AND  MARGARET  GREYLSTON. 

u  AND  you  will  really  send  Reuben  to  cut  down  that 
clump  of  pines?" 

"  YOB,  Margaret.  Well,  now,  it  is  necessary,  for  more 
reasons  than" 

"  Don't  tell  me  so,  John,"  impetuously  interrupted 
Margaret  Greylston.  "  I  am  sure  there  is  no  necessity 
in  the  case,  and  I  am  sorry  to  the  very  heart  that  you 
have  no  more  feeling  than  to  order  those  trees  to  be  cut 
down." 

"  Feeling !  well,  maybe  I  have  more  than  you  think  ; 
yet  I  don't  choose  to  let  it  make  a  fool  of  me,  for  all 
that.  But  I  wish  you  would  say  no  more  about  those 
trees,  Margaret ;  they  really  must  come  down ;  I  have 
reasoned  with  you  on  this  matter  till  I  am  sick  of  it." 

Miss  Greylston  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  walked 
out  on  the  shaded  porch ;  then  she  turned  and  called 
her  brother. 

"Will  you  come  here,  John  ?" 

"  And  what  have  you  to  say  ?" 

"  Nothing,  just  now  ;  I  only  want  you  to  stand  here 
and  look  at  the  old  pines." 

And  so  John  Greylston  did;  and  he  saw  the  distant 
•wood-!  grave  and  fading  beneath  the  autumn  wind — while 
the  old  pines  upreared  their  stately  heads  against  the 
blue  sky,  unchanged  in  beauty,  fresh  and  green  as  ever. 

"  You  see  those  trees,  John,  and  so  do  I ;  and  stand- 
ing here,  with  them  full  in  view,  let  ine  plead  for  them ; 
15 


226  JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON. 

they  are  very  old,  those  pines,  older  than  either  of  us ; 
ve  Clayed  beneath  them  when  we  were  children;  but 
iiiere  is  still  a  stronger  tie :  our  mother  loved  them — oui 
dear,  sainted  mother.  Thirty  years  it  has  been  since 
ehe  died,  but  1  can  never  forget  or  cease  to  love  any- 
thing she  loved.  Oh!  John,  you  remember  just  as 
well  as  I  do,  how  often  she  would  sit  beneath  those  trees 
and  read  or  talk  sweetly  to  us;  and  of  the  dear  band 
who  gathered  there  with  her,  only  we  are  left,  and  the 
old  pines.  Let  them  stand,  John ;  time  enough  to  cut 
them  down  when  I  have  gone  to  sit  with  those  dear 
ones  beneath  the  trees  of  heaven  ;"  and  somewhat  breath- 
less from  long  talking,  Miss  Margaret  paused. 

John  Greylston  was  really  touched,  and  he  laid  hii 
hand  kindly  on  his  sister's  shoulder. 

"  Come,  come,  Madge,  don't  talk  so  sadly.  I  remem- 
ber and  love  those  things  as  well  as  you  do,  but  then 
you  see  I  cannot  afford  to  neglect  my  interests  for  weak 
sentiment.  Now  the  road  must  be  made,  ar>d  that  clump 
of  trees  stand  directly  in  its  course,  and  they  must  come 
down,  or  the  road  will  have  to  take  a  curve  nearly  half 
a  mile  round,  striking  into  one  of  my  best  m?'idows,  and 
a  good  deal  more  expense  this  will  be,  too.  No,  no," 
he  continued,  eagerly,  "  I  can't  oblige  you  in  this  thing. 
This  place  is  mine,  and  I  will  improve  it  as  I  please.  I 
have  kept  back  from  making  many  a  change  for  your 
Bake,  but  just  here  I  am  determined  to  go  OP  "  Anl 
all  this  was  said  with  a  raised  voice  and  a  flushed  face. 

"  You  never  spoke  so  harshly  to  me  in  your  life  before, 
John,  and,  after  all,  what  have  I  done  ?  Call  m,v  feel- 
ings on  this  matter  weak  sentiment,  if  you  choose,  1  ut 


JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GRF.YLSTOtf.  227 

ii  ia  hard  to  hear  such  words  from  your  lips ;"  and,  with 

a  reproachful  sigh,  Miss  Margaret  walked  into  the  house. 

****** 

They  had  been  a  large  family,  those  Greylstons,  in 
their  day,  but  now  all  were  gone ;  all  but  John  and 
Margaret,  the  two  eldest — the  twin  brother  and  sister. 
They  lived  alone  in  their  beautiful  country  home  ;  neither 
had  ever  been  married.  John  had  once  loved  a  fair 
young  creature,  with  eyes  like  heaven's  stars,  and  rose- 
tinged  cheeks  and  lips,  but  she  fell  asleep  just  one  month 
before  her  wedding-day,  and  John  Greylston  was  left  to 
mourn  over  her  early  grave,  and  his  shivered  happiness. 
Dearly  Margaret  loved  her  twin  brother,  and  tenderly 
she  nursed  him  through  the  long  and  fearful  illness  which 
came  upon  him  after  Ellen  Day's  death.  Margaret 
Greylston  was  radiant  in  the  bloom  of  young  woman- 
hood when  this  great  grief  first  smote  her  brother,  but 
from  that  very  hour  she  put  away  from  her  the  gayeties 
of  life,  and  sat  down  by  his  side,  to  be  to  him  a  sweet, 
unselfish  controller  for  evermore,  and  no  lover  could 
ever  tempt  her  from  her  post. 

"John  Greylston  will  soon  get  over  his  sorrow;  in  a 
year  or  two  Ellen  will  be  forgotten  for  a  new  face." 

So  said  the  world ;  Margaret  knew  better.  Her  bro- 
ther's heart  lay  before  her  like  an  open  book,  and  she 
saw  indelible  lines  of  grief  and  anguish  there.  The  old 
homestead,  with  its  wide  lands,  belonged  to  John  Greyl- 
eton.  He  had  bought  it  years  before  from  the  other 
heirs ;  and  Margaret,  the  only  remaining  one,  possessed 
neither  claim  nor  right  in  it.  She  had  a  handsome 
annuity,  however,  and  nearly  all  the  rich  plate  and  linen 


228  JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON. 

with  which  the  house  was  stocked,  together  with  some 
valuable  pieces  of  furniture,  belonged  to  her.  And 
John  and  Margaret  Greylston  lived  on  in  their  quiet 
and  beautiful  home,  in  peace  and  happiness ;  their  soli- 
tude being  but  now  and  then  invaded  by  a  flock  of  nieces 
ami  nephews,  from  the  neighbouring  city — their  only 
and  well-beloved  relatives. 

****** 

It  was  long  after  sunset.  For  two  full  hours  the  moon 
and  stars  had  watched  John  Greylston,  sitting  so  mood- 
ily alone  upon  the  porch.  Now  he  got  up  from  his  chair, 
and  tossing  his  cigar  away  in  -the  long  grass,  walked 
silowly  into  the  house.  Miss  Margaret  did  not  raise  her 
head ;  her  eyes,  as  well  as  her  fingers,  seemed  intent 
upon  the  knitting  she  held.  So  her  brother,  after  a 
hurried  "  G<>od-night,"  took  a  candle  and  went  up  to 
his  own  room,  never  speaking  cne  gentle  word ;  for  he 
said  to  himself,  "  I  am  not  going  to  worry  and  coax  with 
Margaret  any  longer  about  the  old  pines.  She  is  really 
troublesome  with  her  sentimental  notions."  Yet,  after 
all,  John  Greylston's  heart  reproached  him,  and  he  felt 
restless  and  ill  at  ease. 

Miss  Margaret  sat  very  quietly  by  the  low  table, 
knitting  steadily  on,  but  she  was  not  thinking  of  her 
work,  neither  did  she  delight  in  the  beauty  of  that  still 
autumn  evening ;  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  but  she 
hastily  brushed  them  away ;  just  as  though  she  feared 
John  might  unawares  come  back  and  find  her  crying. 
****** 

Ah !  these  way-side  thorns  are  little,  but  sometimes 
they  pierce  as  sharply  as- the  gleaming  sword. 


JOHN   AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON.  229 

"  Good-morning,  John !" 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice,  Mr.  Greylston  turned 
suddenly  from  the  book-ease,  and  his  sister  was  standing 
near  him,  her  face  lit  up  with  a  sweet,  yet  somewhat 
anxious  smile.  He  threw  down  in  a  hurry  the  papers 
he  had  been  tying  together,  and  the  bit  of  red  tape,  and 
holding  out  his  hand,  said  fervently, 

"  I  was  very  harsh  last  night.  I  am  really  sorry  for 
it ;  will  you  not  forgive  me,  Margaret?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  will ;  for  indeed,  John,  I  was  quite  aa 
much  to  blame  as  you." 

"  No,  Madge,  you  were  not,"  he  quickly  answered ; 
"  but  let  it  pass  now.  We  will  think  and  say  no  more 
about  it;"  and,  as  though  he  were  perfectly  satisfied, 
and  really  wished  the  matter  dropped,  John  Greylston 
turned  to  his  papers  again. 

So  Miss  Margaret  was  silent.  She  was  delighted  to 
have  peace  again,  even  though  she  felt  anxious  about  the 
pines,  and  when  her  brother  took  his  seat  at  the  break- 
fast table,  looking  and  speaking  so  kindly,  she  felt  com- 
forted to  think  the  cloud  had  passed  away;  and  John 
Greylston  himself  was  very  glad.  So  the  two  went  on 
eating  their  breakfast  quite  happily.  But  alas!  the 
storm  is  not  always  over  when  the  sky  grows  light. 
Reuben  crossed  the  lawn,  followed  by  the  gardener,  and 
Miss  Margaret's  quick  eye  caught  the  gleaming  of  tho 
axes  swung  over  their  shoulders.  She  hurriedly  set 
down  the  coffee-pot. 

"  Where  are  those  men  going  ?     Reuben  and  Tom  1 
mean." 
.  "  Only  to  the  woods,"  was  the  careless  answer. 


230  JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON. 

"But  what  woods,  John?  Oh!  I  can  tell  by  your 
face ;  y  m  are  determined  to  have  the  pines  cut  down." 

"I  am."  And  John  Greylston  folded  his  arms,  and 
looked  fixedly  at  his  sister,  but  she  did  not  heed  him. 
She  talked  on  eagerly — 

"  I  love  the  old  trees  ;  I  will  do  anything  to  save  them. 
John,  you  spoke  last  night  of  additional  expense,  should 
the  road  take  that  curve.  I  will  make  it  up  to  you ;  I 
can  afford  to  do  this  very  well.  Now  listen  to  reason, 
and  let  the  trees  stand." 

"  Listen  to  reason,  yourself,"  he  answered  more  gently. 
"  I  will  not  take  a  cent  from  you.  Margaret,  you  are  a 
perfect  enthusiast  about  some  things.  Now,  I  love  my 
parents  and  old  times,  I  am  sure,  as  well  as  you  do,  and 
that  love  is  not  one  bit  the  colder,  because  I  do  not  let 
it  stand  in  the  way  of  interest.  Don't  say  anything 
more.  My  mind  is  made  up  in  this  matter.  The  place 
is  mine,  and  I  cannot  see  that  you  have  any  right  to 
interfere  in  the  improvements  I  choose  to  make  on  it." 

A  deep  flush  stole  over  Miss  Greylston's  face. 

"  I  have  indeed  no  legal  right  to  counsel  or  plead  with 
you  about  these  things,"  she  answered  sadly,  "but  I 
have  a  sister's  right,  that  of  affection — you  cannot  deny 
this,  John.  Once  again,  I  beg  of  you  to  let  the  old 
pines  alone." 

"  And  once  again,  I  tell  you  I  will  do  as  I  please  in 
this  matter,"  and  this  was  said  sharply  and  decidedly. 

Margaret  Greylston  said  not  another  word,  but  push- 
ing back  her  chair,  she  arose  from  the  breakfast-table 
and  went  quickly  from  the  room,  even  before  her  brother 
could  call  to  her.  Reuben  and  his  companion  had  just 


JOHN    AND   MARGARET   GREYLSTON.  231 

got  in  the  last  meadow  when  Miss  Greylston  overtook 
them.  " 

"  You  will  let  the  pines  alone  to-day,"  she  calmly 
said,  "go  to  any  other  work  you  choose,  hut  reineuiher 
those  trees  are  not  to  be  touched." 

"  Very  well,  Miss  Margaret,"  and  Reuben  touched  his 
hat  respectfully. 

"  Mr.  John  is  very  changeable  in  his  notions,"  burst 
in  Tom ;  "  not  an  hour  ago  he  was  in  such  a  hurry  to 
get  us  at  the  pines." 

"  Never  mind,"  authoritatively  said  Miss  Greylston  ; 
"  do  just  as  you  are  bid,  without  any  remarks  ;"  and  she 
turned  away,  and  went  down  the  meadow  path,  even  as 
she  came,  with  a  quick  step,  Avithout  a  bonnet,  shading 
her  eyes  from  the  morning  sun  with  her  handkerchief. 

John  Greylston  still  sat  at  the  breakfast-table,  half 
dreamily  balancing  the  spoon  across  the  saucer's  edge. 
When  his  sister  came  in  again,  he  raised  his  head,  and 
mutely-inquiringly  looked  at  her,  and  she  spoke, — 

"  I  left  this  room  just  to  go  after  Reuben  ,and  Tom  ;  I 
overtook  them  before  they  had  crossed  the  last  meadow, 
and  I  told  them  not  to  touch  the  pine  trees,  but  to  go, 
instead,  to  any  other  work  they  choose.  I  am  sure  you 
will  be  angry  with  me  for  all  this:  but,  John,  I  cannot 
help  it  if  you  are." 

"  Don't  say  so,  Margaret,"  Mr.  Greylston  sharply 
answered,  getting  up  at  the  same  time  from  his  chair, 
"  don't  tell  me  you  could  not  help  it.  I  have  talked  an«l 
masoned  with  you  about  those  trees,  until  my  patience 
la  3ompletely  worn  out ;  there  is  no  necessity  for  you  to 
be  such  an  obstinate  fool." 


232  JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON. 

"  Oh !  John,  hush,  hush  !" 

"  I  will  not,"  he  thundered.  "  I  am  master  here,  and 
I  will  speak  and  act  in  this  house  as  I  see  fit.  Now, 
who  gave  you  liberty  to  countermand  my  orders ;  ts 
send  my  servants  back  from  the  work  I  had  set  for  them 
to  do  ?  Margaret,  I  warn  you ;  for,  any  more  such 
freaks,  you  and  I,  brother  and  sister  though  we  be,  will 
live  no  longer  under  the  same  roof." 

"  Be  still,  John  Greylston  !  Remember  her  patient, 
self-sacrificing  love.  Remember  the  past  —  be  still." 
But  he  would  not ;  relentlessly,  stubbornly,  the  waves 
of  passion  raged  on  in  his  soul. 

"  Now,  you  hear  all  this  ;  do  not  forget  it ;  and  havo 
done  with  your  silly  obstinacy  as  soon  as  possible,  for  I 
will  be  worried  no  longer  with  it ;"  and  roughly  pushing 
away  the  slight  hand  which  was  laid  upon  his  arm,  Mr. 
Greylston  stalked  out  of  the  house. 

For  a  moment,  Margaret  stood  where  her  brother  had 
left  her,  just  in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  Her  cheeks 
were  very  white,  but  quickly  a  crimson  flush  carne  over 
them,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears ;  then  she  sat  down 
upon  the  white  chintz-covered  settle,  and  hiding  her  face 
in  the  pillows,  wept  violently  for  a  long  time. 

****** 

"I  have  consulted  Margaret's  will  always;  in  many 
things  I  have  given  up  to  it,  but  here,  where  reason  is 
BO  fully  on  my  side,  I  will  go  on.  I  have  no  patience 
with  her  weak  stubbornness,  no  patience  with  her  pre- 
sumption in  forbidding  my  servants  to  do  as  I  have 
told  them;  such  measures  I  will  never  allow  in  my 
house;"  and  John  Greylston,  in  his  angry  musings,  struck 


JOHN  AND    MARGARET   qKRVl  S'.'CN.  233 

his  cane  smartly  against  a  tall  cr\m?on  dahlia,  -which 
grew  in  the  grass-plat.  It  fell  quivering  acrcss  his 
path,  hut  he  walked  on,  never  heeding  A\hat  he  had  done. 
There  was  a  faint  sense  of  shame  rising  iu  his  heart,  a 
feeble  conviction  of  having  heen  himself  to  blame ;  but 
just  then  they  seemed  only  to  fan  and  inoreose  his  keen 
indignation.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  his  anger,  John  Greyl- 
ston  had  the  delicate  consideration  for  his  sister  and 
himself  to  repeat  to  the  men  the  command  she  had  given 
them. 

"  Do  as  Miss  Greylston  bade  you  ;  let  the  trees  s>lai,i 
until  further  orders."  But  pride  prompted  this,  tor  bo 
said  to  himself,  "  If  Margaret  and  I  ke?p  at  this  childieb 
work  of  unsaying  each  other's  commands,  that  sharp  old 
fellow,  Reuben,  will  suspect  that  we  have  quarrelled." 

Mr.  Greylston's  wrath  did  not  abate  ;  and  when  he 
came  home  at  dinner-time,  and  found  the  table  so  nicely 
set,  and  no  one  but  the  little  servant  to  wait  upon  him, 
Margaret  away,  shut  up  with  a  bad  headache,  in  her 
own  room,  he  somehow  felt  relieved, — just  then  he  did 
not  want  to  see  her.  But  when  eventide  came,  and  he 
sat  down  to  supper,  and  missed  again  his  sister's  calm 
and  pleasant  face,  a  half-regretful  feeling  stole  over  him, 
and  he  grew  lonely,  for  John  Greylston's  heart  was  the 
home  of  every  kindly  affection.  He  loved  Margaret 
dearly.  Still,  pride  and  anger  kept  him  aloof  from  her : 
Btill  his  soul  was  full  of  harsh,  unforgiving  thoughts. 
And  Margaret  Greylston,  as  she  lay  with  a  throbbing 
Lead  and  an  aching  heart  upon  her  snowy  pillow,  thought 
the  hours  of  that  bright  afternoon  and  evening  very  long 
and  very  weary.  And  yet  those  hours  were  full  of  light, 


234  JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON. 

and  i.iclorly,  anl  fragrance,  for  the  sun  shone,  and  the 
sky  was  blue,  the  birds  sang,  and  the  waters  rippled ; 
even  the  autumn  flowers  vere  giving  their  sweet,  last 
kisses  to  the  air.  Earth  was  fair, — why,  then,  should 
not  human  hearts  rejoice  ?  Ah  !  Nature  s  loveliness 
alone  cannot  cheer  the  soul.  There  was  once  a  day  when 
the  beauty  even  of  Eden  ceased  to  gladden  two  guilty 
tremblers  who  hid  in  its  bowers. 

"  A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath,  but  grievous 
words  stir  up  anger."  When  Margaret  Greylston  came 
across  that  verse,  she  closed  her  Bible,  and  sat  down 
beside  the  window  to  muse.  "Ah,"  she  thought,  "how 
true  is  that  saying  of  the  wise  man  !  If  I  had  only  from 
the  first  given  John  soft  answers,  instead  of  grievous 
words,  we  might  now  hav?  been  at  peace.  I  knew  his 
quick  temper  so  well ;  I  should  have  been  more  gentle 
with  him."  Then  she  recalled  all  John's  constant  and 
tender  attention  to  her  wishes ;  the  many  instances  in 
which  he  had  gone  back  from  his  own  pleasure  to  gratify 
her ;  but  whilst  she  remembered  these  things,  never  once 
did  her  noble,  unselfish  heart  dwell  upon  the  sacrifices, 
great  and  numerous,  which  she  had  made  for  his  sake. 
Miss  Margaret  began  to  think  she  had  indeed  acted 
very  weakly  and  unjustly  towards  her  brother.  She 
had  half  a  mind  just  then  to  go  to  him,  and  make  this 
confession.  But  she  looked  out  and  saw  the  dear  old 
trees,  so  stately  and  beautiful,  and  then  the  memory  of 
all  John  s  harsh  and  cruel  words  rushed  back  upon  her. 
She  struggled  vainly  to  banish  them  from  her  mind,  she 
strove  to  queU  the  angry  feelings  which  arose  with  those 


JOHN   AND   MARGARET   GREFLSTON.  235 

memories.  At  last  she  knelt  and  prayed.  When  she 
got  up  from  her  knees  traces  of  tears  were  on  her  face, 
but  nor  heart  was  calm.  Margaret  Greylston  had  been 
enabled,  in  the  strength  of  "  that  grace  which  cometh 
from  above,"  to  forgive  her  brother  freely,  yet  she 
scarcely  hoped  that  he  would  give  her  the  opportunity 
to  tell  him  this. 

"  Good-morning,"  John  Greylston  said,  curtly  and 
chillingly  enough  to  his  sister.  Somehow  she  was  dis- 
appointed, even  though  she  knew  his  proud  temper  so 
well,  yet  she  had  prayed  that  there  would  have  been 
some  kindly  relentings  towards  her ;  but  there  seemed 
none.  So  she  answered  him  sadly,  and  the  two  sat  down 
to  their  gloomy,  silent  breakfast.  And  thus  it  was  all 
that  day.  Mr.  Greylston  still  mute  and  ungracious ;  his 
sister  shrank  away  from  him.  In  that  mood  she  scarcely 
knew  hun  ;  and  her  face  was  grave,  and  her  voice  so  sad, 
even  the  servants  wondered  what  was  the  matter.  Mar- 
garet Greylston  had  fully  overcome  all  angry,  reproach- 
ful feelings  against  her  brother.  So  far  her  soul  had 
peace,  yet  she  mourned  for  his  love,  his  kind  words,  and 
pleasant  smiles ;  and  she  longed  to  tell  him  this,  but  his 
coldness  held  her  back.  Mr.  Greylston  found  his  com- 
fort in  every  way  consulted ;  favourite  dishes  were 
silently  placed  before  him  ;  sweet  flowers,  as  of  old,  laid 
upon  his  table.  He  knew  the  hand  which  wrought  these 
Moving  acts.  But  did  this  knowledge  melt  his  heart  ? 
fn  a  little  while  we  shall  see. 

And  the  third  morning  dawned.  Yet  the  cloud  seemed 
in  no  wise  lifted.  John  Greylston's  portrait  hung  in  the 
parlour ;  it  was  painted  in  his  young  days,  when  he  was 


236  JOHN    AND   MARGARET   GREYLSTON. 

very  handsome.  His  sister  could  not  weary  jf  looking 
at  it ;  to  her  this  picture  seemed  the  very  embodiment 
of  beauty.  Dear,  unconscious  soul,  she  never  thought 
how  much  it  was  like  herself,  or  even  the  portrait  of  her 
which  hung  in  the  opposite  recess — for  brother  and  sister 
strikingly  resembled  each  other.  Both  had  the  same 
high  brows,  the  same  deep  blue  eyes  and  finely  chiselled 
features,  the  same  sweet  and  pleasant  smiles;  there  was 
but  one  difference:  Miss  Margaret's  hair  was  of  a  pale 
golden  colour,  and  yet  unchanged  ;  she  wore  it  now  put 
back  very  smoothly  and  plainly  from  her  face.  When 
John  was  young,  his  curls  were  of  so  dark  a  brown  as 
to  look  almost  black  in  the  shade.  They  were  bleached 
a  good  deal  by  time,  but  yet  they  clustered  round  his 
brow  in  the  same  careless,  boyish  fashion  as  of  old. 

Just  now  Miss,  Margaret  could  only  look  at  her  bro- 
ther's picture  with  tears.  On  that  very  morning  she 
stood  before  it,  her  spirit  so  full  of  tender  memories,  so 
crowded  with  sad  yearnings,  she  felt  as  though  they 
would  crush  her  to  the  earth.  Oh,  weary  heart !  endure 
yet  "  a  little  while"  longer.  Even  now  the  angel  of 
reconciliation  is  on  the  wing. 

Whilst  John  Greylston  sat  alone  upon  the  foot  of  the 
porch  at  the  front  of  the  house,  and  his  sister  stood  so 
sadly  in  the  parlour,  the  city  stage  came  whirling  along 
the  dusty  turnpike.  It  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  oppo- 
site the  lane  which  led  to  John  Greylston's  place.  The 
door  was  opened,  and  a  grave-looking  young  man  sprang 
out.  He  was  followed  by  a  fairy  little  creature,  who 
dapped  her  hands,  and  danced  for  joy  when  she  saw  the 


JOHN    AND    MARGARET    GREYLSTON.  23? 

white  chimneys  and  vine-covered  porches  of  "Grejlston 
Cottage." 

"Annie  !  Annie  !"  but  she  only  laughed,  and  gather- 
ing up  the  folds  of  her  travelling  dress,  managed  to  get 
BO  quickly  and  skilfully  over  the  fence,  that  her  brother, 
who  -was  unfastening  the  gate,  looked  at  her  in  perfect 
amazement. 

"  What  in  the  world,"  he  asked,  with  a  smile  on  his 
grave  face,  "  possessed  you  to  get  over  the  fence  in  that 
monkey  fashion  ?  All  those  people  looking  at  you,  too. 
For  shame,  Annie  !  Will  you  never  be  done  with  those 
childish  capers  ?" 

"  Yes,  maybe  when  I  am  a  gray-haired  old  woman  ; 
not  before.  Don't  scold  now,  Richard ;  you  know  very, 
well  you,  and  the  passengers  beside,  would  give  your 
ears  to  climb  a  fence  as  gracefully  as  I  did  just  now. 
There,  won't  you  hand  me  my  basket,  please?" 

He  did  so,  and  then,  with  a  gentle  smile,  took  the 
white,  ungloved  fingers  in  his. 

"My  darling  Annie,  remember" — 

"  Stage  waits,"  cried  the  driver. 

So  Richard  Bermon's  lecture  was  cut  short ;  he  had 
only  time  to  bid  his  merry  young  sister  good-bye.  Soon 
he  was  lost  to  sight. 

Annie  Bermon  hurried  down  the  lane,  swinging  her 
light  willow  basket  carelessly  on  her  arm,  and  humming 
a  joyous  air  all  the  way.  Just  as  she  opened  the  outer 
lawn  gate,  the  great  Newfoundland!  dog  came  towards 
her  with  a  low  growl ;  it  changed  directly  though  into  a 
glad  bark. 

"I  was  sure  you  would  know -me,  you  dear  old  fellow  ,• 


238  JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GRKYLSTON. 

but  1  can't  stop  to  talk  to  you  just  now."  And  Annie 
patted  his  silken  ears,  and  then  went  on  to  the  house, 
the  dog  bounding  on  before  her,  as  though  he  had  found 
an  old  playmate. 

John  Greylston  rubbed  his  eyes.  No.  it  \*as  not  a 
dream.  His  darling  niece  was  really  by  his  side,  her 
soft  curls  touching  his  cheek ;  he  flung  his  arms  tightly 
around  her. 

"Dear  child,  I  was  just  dreaming  about  you;  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  your  sweet  face  again." 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  be,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered 
gayly,  "  and  so  I  started  off  from  home  this  morning 
just,  in  a  hurry.  I  took  a  sudden  fancy  that  I  would 
come,  and  they  could  not  keep  me.  But  where  is  dear 
Aunt  Margaret  ?  Oh,  I  know  what  I  will  do.  I'll  just 
run  in  and  take  her  by  surprise.  How  well  you  look, 
uncle — so  noble  and  grand  too;  by  the  way,  I  always 
think  King  Robert  Bruce  must  just  have  been  such  a 
man  like  you." 

"  No  laughing  at  your  old  uncle,  you  little  rogue," 
said  John  Greylston  pleasantly,  "  but  run  and  find  your 
aunt.  She  is  somewhere  in  the  house."  And  he  looked 
after  her  with  a  loving  smile  as  she  flitted  by  him. 

Annie  Bermon  passed  quickly  through  the  shaded 
sitting-room  into  the  cool  ;.nd  matted  hall,  catching 
glimpses  as  she  went  of  the  pretty  parlour  and  wide 
library ;  but  her  aunt  was  in  neither  of  these  rooms ;  so 
she  hurried  up  stairs,  and  stealing  on  tiptoe,  with  gently 
fingers  she  pushed  open  the  door.  Margaret  Greykfcon 
was  witting  by  the  table,  sewing ;  her  face  was  flushed, 
and  her  eyes  red  and  swollen  as  with  weeping.  Annie 


JOHN   AND    MARGARET   GRKYLSTON.  239 

stood  still  in  wonder.  But  Miss  Margaret  suddenly 
looked  up,  and  her  niece  sprang,  with  a  glad  cry,  into 
her  arms. 

"  You  are  not  well,  Aunt  Margaret  ?  Oh  !  how  sorry 
I  am  to  hear  that,  but  it  seems  to  me  I  could  never  get 
sick  in  this  sweet  place ;  everything  looks  so  bright  awl 
lovely  here.  And  I  would  come  this  morning,  Aunt 
Margaret,  in  spite  of  everything  Sophy  and  all  of  them 
could  say.  They  told  me  I  had  been  here  once  before 
this  summer,  and  stayed  a  long  time,  and  if  I  would,  come 
again,  my  welcome  would  be  worn  out,  just  as  if  I  was 
going  to  believe  such  nonsense;"  and  Annie  tossed  her 
head.  "  But  I  persevered,  and  you  see,  aunty  dear,  I 
am  here,  we  will  trust  for  some  good  purpose,  as  Richard 
would  say." 

A  silent  Amen  to  this  rose  up  in  Miss  Margaret's 
heart,  and  with  it  came  a  hope  dim  and  shadowy,  yet 
beautiful  withal ;  she  hardly  dared  to  cherish  it.  Annie 
went  on  talking, — 

"  I  can  only  stay  two  weeks  with  you — school  com- 
mences then,  and  I  must  hurry  back  to  it ;  but  I  am 
ahvays  so  glad  to  get  here,  away  from  the  noise  and  dust 
of  the  city ;  this  is  the  best  place  in  the  world.  Do  you 
know  when  we  were  travelling  this  summer,  I  was  pining 
all  the  time  to  get  here.  I  was  so  tired  of  Newport  ami 
Saratoga,  and  all  the  crowds  we  met." 

"You  are  singular  in  your  tastes,  some  would  think, 
Annie,"  said  Miss  Greylston,  smiling  fondly  on  her 
darling. 

"  So  Madge  and   3ophy  were  always  saving ;  ev-*a 


240  JOHN    AND    MARGARET    GREYLSTON. 

Clare  laughed  at  me,  and  my  brothers,  too, — only  Rich 
ard, — Oh !  by  the  way,  I  did  torment  him  this  morning, 
he  is  so  grave  and  good,  and  he  was  just  beginning  a 
nice  lecture  at  the  gate,  when  the  driver  called,  and  poor 
Richard  had  only  time  to  send  his  love  to  you.  Wasn't 
it  droll,  though,  that*  lecture  being  cut  so  short?"  ainl 
Annie  threw  herself  down  in  the  great  cushioned  chair, 
and  laughed  heartily. 

Annie  Bermond  was  the  youngest  of  John  and  Mar- 
garet Greylston's  nieces  and  nephews.  Her  beauty,  her 
sweet  and  sunny  temper  made  her  a  favourite  at  home 
and  abroad.  John  Greylston  loved  her  dearly ;  he 
always  thought  she  looked  like  his  chosen  bride,  Ellen 
Day.  Perhaps  there  was  some  likeness,  for  Annie  had 
the  same  bright  eyes,  and  the  same  pouting,  rose-bud 
lips — but  Margaret  thought  she  was  more  like  their  own 
family.  She  loved  to  trace  a  resemblance  in  the  smiling 
face,  rich  golden  curls,  and  slight  figure  of  Annie  to  her 
young  sister  Edith,  who  died  when  Annie  was  a  little 
baby.  Just  sixteen  years  old  was  Annie,  and  wild  and 
active  as  any  deer,  as  her  city-bred  sisters  sometimes 
declared  half  mournfully. 

Somehow,  Annie  Bermond  thought  it  uncommonly 
grave  and  dull  at  the  dinner-table,  yet  why  should  it  be 
BO?  Her  uncle  and  aunt,  as  kind  and  dear  as  ever,  were 
there ;  she,  herself,  a  blithe  fairy,  sat  in  her  accustomed 
Beat ;  the  day  was  bright,  birds  were  singing,  flowers 
M'ere  gleaming,  but  there  was  a  change.  What  could  it 
bo  ?  Annie  knew  not,  yet  her  quick  perception  warned 
her  of  the  presence  of  some  trouble — some  cloud,  In 


JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON.  241 

fler  haste  to  talk  and  cheer  her  uncle  and  aunt,  the  poor 
Child  said  what  would  have  been  best  left  unsaid. 

"  How  beautiful  those  trees  are  ;  I  mean  those  pines  on 
the  hill ;  don't  you  admire  them  very  much,  Uncle  John  .'' 

" Tolerably,"  was  the  rather  short  answer.  "I  ait. 
too  well  used  to  trees  to  go  into  the  raptures  of  my  little 
city  niece  about  them ;"  and  all  this  time  Margaret  looked 
fixedly  down  upon  the  floor. 

"  Don't  you  frown  so,  uncle,  or  I  will  run  right  home 
to-morrow,"  said  Annie,  with  the  assurance  of  a  privi- 
leged pet;  "but  I  was  going  to  ask  you  about  the  rock 
just  back  of  those  pines.  Do  you  and  Aunt  Margaret 
still  go  there  to  see  the  sunset  ?  I  was  thinking  about 
you  these  two  past  evenings,  when  the  sunsets  were  so 
grand,  and  wishing  I  was  with  you  on  the  rock ;  and  you 
were  both  there,  weren't  you?" 

This  time  John  Greylston  gave  no  answer,  but  his 
sister  said  briefly, 

"  No,  Annie,  we  have  not  been  at  the  rock  for  several 
evenings;"  and  then  a  rather  painful  silence  followed. 

Annie  at  last  spoke  : 

"  You  both,  somehow,  seem  so  changed  and  dull ;  1 
would  just  like  to  know  the  reason.  May  be  aunty  is 
going  to  be  married.  Is  that  it,  Uncle  John  ?" 

Miss  Margaret  smiled,  but  the  colour  came  brightly 
to  her  face. 

"  If  this  is  really  so,  I  don't  wonder  you  are  sad  and 
grave ;  you,  especially,  Uncle  John ;  how  lonely  and 
•wretched  you  would  be  !  Oh !  would  you  not  be  very 
sorry  if  Aunt  Madge  should  leave  you,  never  to  come 
back  again?  Would  not  your  heart  almost  break?" 
16 


242  JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON. 

John  Greylston  threw  down  his  knife  and  fork  vio- 
lently upon  the  table,  and  pushing  back  his  chair,  went 
from  the  room. 

Annie  Bermond  looked  in  perfect  bewilderment  at  her 
aunt,  but  Miss  Mai  garet  was  silent  and  tearful. 

"Aunt!  darling  aunt!  don't  look  so  distressed;"  and 
Annie  put  her  arms  around  her  neck ;  "  but  tell  me  what 
have  I  done  ;  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

Miss  Greylston  shook  her  head. 

"  You  will  not  speak  now,  Aunt  Margaret ;  you  might 
tell  me ;  I  am  sure  something  has  happened  to  distress 
you.  Just  as  soon  as  I  came  here,  I  saw  a  change,  but 
I  could  not  understand  it.  I  cannot  yet.  Tell  me,  dear 
aunt !"  and  she  knelt  beside  her. 

So  Miss  Greylston  told  her  niece  the  whole  story, 
softening,  as  far  as  truth  would  permit,  many  of  John's 
harsh  speeches ;  but  she  was  not  slow  to  blame  herself. 
Annie  listened  attentively.  Young  as  she  was,  her 
heart  took  in  with  the  deepest  sympathy  the  sorrow 
which  shaded  her  beloved  friends. 

"Oh  !  I  am  so 'very  sorry  for  all  this,"  she  said  half 
crying;  "but  aunty,  dear,  I  do  not  think  uncle  will  have 
those  nice  old  trees  cut  down.  He  loves  you  too  much 
to  do  it ;  I  am  sure  he  is  sorry  now  for  all  those  sharp 
things  he  said  ;  but  his  pride  keeps  him  buck  from  telling 
you  this,  and  maybe  he  thinks  you  are  angry  with  him 
still.  Aunt  Margaret,  let  me  go  and  say  to  him  that 
your  love  is  as  warm  as  ever,  and  that  you  forgive  bin* 
freely.  Oh  !  it  may  do  so  much  good.  May  I  not  gr.  ?" 

But  Miss  Greylston  tightened  her  grasp  on  the  young 
girl's  hand. 


JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON.  248 

"  Annie,  you  do  not  know  your  uncle  as  well  as  I  do. 
Such  a  step  can  do  no  good, — love,  you  cannot  help  us." 

"  Only  let  me  try,"  she  returned,  earnestly  ;  "  Uncle 
John  loves  me  so  much,  and  on  the  first  day  of  my  visit, 
he  will  not  refuse  to  hear  me.  I  will  tell  him  all  the 
sweet  things  you  said  about  him.  I  will  tell  him  there 
is  not  one  bit  of  anger  in  your  heart,  and  that  you  for- 
give and  love  him  dearly.  I  am  sure  when  he  hears 
this  he  will  be  glad.  Any  way,  it  will  not  make  matters 
worse.  Now,  do  have  some  confidence  in  me.  Indeed 
I  am  not  so  childish  as  I  seem.  I  am  turned  of  sixteen 
now,  and  Richard  and  Sophy  often  say  I  have  the  heart 
of  a  woman,  even  if  I  have  the  ways  of  a  child.  Let 
me  go  now,  dear  Aunt  Margaret ;  I  will  soon  come  back 
to  you  with  such  good  news." 

Miss  Greylston  stooped  down  and  kissed  Annie's  brovr 
solemnly,  tenderly.  "  Go,  my  darling,  and  may  God  be 
with  you."  Then  she  turned  away. 

And  with  willing  feet  Annie  Bermond  went  forth  upon 
her  blessed  errand.  She  soon  found  her  uncle.  lie 
was  sitting  beneath  the  shade  of  the  old  pines,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  in  very  deep  thought.  Annie  got  down  on 
the  grass  beside  him,  and  laid  her  soft  cheek  upon  his 
sunburnt  hand.  How  gently  he  spoke — 

"  What  did  you  come  here  for,  sweet  bird  ?" 

"  Because  I  love  you  so  much,  Uncle  John ;  that  is 
the  reason ;  but  won't  you  tell  me  why  you  look  so  very 
sad  and  grave  ?  I  wish  I  knew  your  thoughts  just  now." 

"  And  if  you  did,  fairy,  they  would  not  make  you  any 
prettier  or  better  than  you  are." 


1244  JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON. 

"I  wonder  if  they  do  you  any  good,  uncle?"  she 
quickly  replied ;  but  her  companion  made  no  answer ;  he 
only  smiled. 

Let  me  write  here  what  John  Greylston's  tongue  re- 
fused to  say.  Those  thoughts,  indeed,  had  done  him 
good  ;  they  were  tender,  self-upbraiding,  loving  thoughts, 
mingled,  all  the  while,  with  touching  memories,  mourn- 
ful glimpses  of  the  past — the  days  of  his  sore  bereave- 
ment, when  the  coffin-lid  was  first  shut  down  over  Ellen 
Day's  sweet  face,  and  he  was  smitten  to  the  earth  with 
anguish.  Then  Margaret's  sympathy  and  love,  so  beau- 
tiful in  its  strength,  and  unselfishness,  so  unwearying 
and  sublime  in  its  sacrifices,  became  to  him  a  stay  and 
comfort.  And  had  she  not,  for  his  sake,  uncomplain- 
ingly given  up  the  best  years  of  her  life,  as  it  seemed  ? 
Had  her  love  ever  faltered  ?  Had  it  ever  wavered  in  its 
sweet  endeavours  to  make  him  happy  ?  These  memories, 
these  thoughts,  closed  round  John  Greylston  like  a  circle 
of  rebuking  angels.  Not  for  the  first  time  were  they 
with  him  when  Annie  found  him  beneath  the  old  pines. 
Ever  since  that  morning  of  violent  and  unjust  anger 
they  had  been  struggling  in  his  heart,  growing  stronger, 
it  seemed,  every  hour  in  their  reproachful  tenderness. 
Those  loving,  silent  attentions  to  his  wishes  John  Greyl- 
ston had  noted,  and  they  rankled  like  sharp  thorns  in 
his  soul.  He  was  not  worthy  of  them ;  this  he  knew. 
How  he  loathed  himself  for  his  sharp  and  angry  words! 
He  had  it  in  his  heart  to  tell  his  sister  this,  but  an  over- 
powering shame  held  him  back. 

"  If  I  only  knew  how  Madge  felt  towards  me,"  he 
said  many  times  to  hiroself,  "  then  I  could  speak ;  but  J 


JOHN    AND    MARGARET    GREYLSTON.  Ii45 

have  been  such  a  brute.  She  can  do  nothing  else  but 
repulse  me  ;"  and  this  threw  around  him  that  chill  re- 
serve which  kept  Margaret's  generous  and  forgiving 
heart  at  a  distance. 

Even  e very-day  life  has  its  wonders,  and  perhaps  not 
one  of  the  least  was  that  this  brother  and  sister,  so  long 
fellow-pilgrims,  so  long  readers  of  each  other's  hearts, 
should  for  a  little  while  be  kept  asunder  by  mutual  blind- 
ness. Yet  the  hand  which  is  to  chase  the  mists  from 
their  darkened  eyes,  even  now  is  raised,  what  though  it 
be  but  small  ?  God  in  his  wisdom  and  mercy  will  cause 
its  strength  to  be  sufficient. 

When  John  Greylston  gave  his  niece  no  answer,  she 
looked  intently  in  his  face  and  said, 

"  You  will  not  tell  me  what  you  have  been  thinking 
about :  but  I  can  guess,  Uncle  John.  I  know  the  reason 
you  did  not  take  Aunt  Margaret  to  the  rock  to  see  the 
sunset." 

"Do  you?"  he  asked,  startled  from  his  composure, 
his  face  flushing  deeply. 

"  Yes ;  for  I  would  not  rest  until  aunty  told  me  the 
whole  story,  and  I  just  came  out  to  talk  to  you  about  it. 
Now,  Uncle  John,  don't  frown,  and  draw  away  youi 
hand ;  just  listen  to  me  a  little  while ;  I  am  sure  you 
•will  be  glad."  Then  she  repeated,  in  her  pretty,  girlish 
•way,  touching  in  its  earnestness,  all  Miss  Greylston  had 
told  her.  "  Oh,  if  you  had  only  heard  her  say  those 
sweet  things,  I  know  you  would  not  keep  vexed  one 
minute  longer  !  Aunt  Margaret  told  me  that  she  did  not 
blame  you  at  all,  only  herself;  that  she  loved  you  dearly, 
and  nhe  is  so  sorry  because  you  seem  cold  and  angry 


246  JOHN   AND   MARGARET   GREYLSTOW. 

yet,  for  she  wants  so  very,  very  much  to  beg  your  for* 
givcness,  and  tell  you  all  this,  dear  Uncle  John,  if  you 
would  only — " 

"  Annie,"  he  suddenly  interrupted,  drawing  her  closely 
to  his  bosom  ;  "  Annie,  you  precious  child,  in  telling  me 
all  this  you  have  taken  a  great  weight  off  of  my  heart. 
You  have  done  your  old  uncle  a  world  of  good.  God 
bless  you  a  thousand  times !  If  I  had  known  this  at 
once ;  if  I  had  been  sure,  from  the  first,  of  Margaret's 
forgiveness  for  my  cruel  words,  how  quickly  I  would 
have  sought  it.  My  dear,  noble  sister !"  The  tears 
filled  John  Greylston's  dark  blue  eyes,  but  his  smile  was 
so  exceedingly  tender  and  beautiful,  that  Annie  drew 
closer  to  his  side. 

"  Oh,  that  lovely  smile  !"  she  cried,  "  how  it  lights 
your  face;  and  now  you  look  so  good  and  forgiving, 
dearer  and  better  even  than  a  king.  Uncle  John,  kiss 
me  again ;  rny  heart  is  so  glad  !  shall  I  run  now  and 
tell  Aunt  Margaret  all  this  sweet  news  ?" 

k'No,  no,  darling  little  peace-maker,  stay  here;  I  will 
go  to  her  myself;"  and  he  hurried  away. 

Annie  Bermond  sat  alone  upon  the  hill,  musingly 
platting  the  long  grass  together,  but  she  heeded  not  the 
work  of  her  fingers.  Her  face  was  bright  with  joy,  her 
heart  full  of  happiness.  Dear  child  !  in  one  brief  hour 
she  hnd  learned  the  blessedness  of  that  birthright  which 
is  for  all  God's  sons  and  daughters,  if  they  will  but 
claim  it.  I  mean  the  privilege  of  doing  good,  of  being 
useful. 

Miss  Greylston  sat  by  the  parlour  window,  just  where 


JOHN    AND    MARGARET    UREYLSTON.  247 

she  could  see  who  crossed  the  lawn.  She  was  waiting 
with  a  kind  of  nervous  impatience  for  Annie.  She 
heard  a  footstep,  but  it  was  only  Liddy  going  down  to 
the  dairy.  Then  Reuben  went  by  on  his  way  to  the 
meadow,  and  all  was  silent  again.  Where  was  Annie  ? 
— but  now  quick  feet  sounded  upon  the  crisp  and  faded 
leaves.  Miss  Margaret  looked  out,  and  saw  her  brother 
coming, — then  she  was  sure  Annie  had  in  some  way 
missed  him,  and  she  drew  back  from  the  window  keenly 
disappointed,  not  even  a  faint  suspicion  of  the  blessed 
truth  crossing  her  mind.  As  John  Greylston  entered 
the  hall,  a  sudden  and  irresistible  desire  prompted  Mar- 
garet to  go  and  tell  him  all  the  loving  and  forgiving 
thoughts  of  her  heart,  no  matter  what  his  mood  should 
be.  So  she  threw  down  her  work,  and  went  quickly 
towards  the  parlour  door.  And  the  brother  and  sister 
met,  just  on  the  threshold. 

"John — John,"  she  said,  falteringly,  "I  must  speak 
to  you  ;  I  cannot  bear  this  any  longer." 

"  Nor  can  I,  Margaret." 

Miss  Greylston  looked  up  in  her  brother's  face;  it 
was  beaming  with  love  and  tenderness.  Then  she  knew 
the  hour  of  reconciliation  had  come,  and  with  a  quick, 
glad  cry,  she  sprang  into  his  arms,  and  laid  her  head 
down  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Can  you  ever  forgive  me,  Madge  ?" 

She  made  no  reply — words  had  melted  into  tears,  but 
they  were  eloquent,  and  for  a  little  while  it  was  quite 
still  in  the  parlour. 

****** 

"  You  shall  blame  yourself  no  longer,  Margaret.     All 


248  JOHN    AND    MARGARET    GREYLSTON. 

along  you  have  behaved  like  a  sweet  Christian  woman  as 
you  are,  but  I  have  been  an  old  fool,  unreasonable  and 
cross  from  the  very  beginning.  Can  you  really  forgive 
me  all  those  harsh  words,  for  which  I  hated  myself  not 
ten  hours  after  they  were  said  ?  Can  you,  indeed,  for 
-,:ive  and  forget  these  ?  Tell  me  so  again." 

"John,"  she  said,  raising  her  tearful  face  from  hia 
shoulder,  "  I  do  forgive  you  most  completely,  with  my 
whole  heart,  and,  0 !  I  wanted  so  to  tell  you  this  two 
days  ago,  but  your  coldness  kept  me  back.  I  was  afraid 
your  anger  was  not  over,  and  that  you  would  repel  me." 

"  Ah,  that  coldness  was  but  shame — deep  and  painful 
shame.  I  was  needlessly  harsh  with  you,  and  moments 
of  reflection  only  served  to  fasten  on  me  the  belief  that 
I  had  lost  all  claim  to  your  love,  that  you  could  not  for- 
give me.  Yes !  I  did  misjudge  you,  Madge,  I  know, 
but  when  I  looked  back  upon  the  past,  and  all  your 
faithful  love  for  me,  I  saw  you  as  I  had  ever  seen  you, 
the  best  of  sisters,  and  then  my  shameful  and  ungrate- 
ful conduct  rose  up  clearly  before  me.  I  felt  so  utterly 
unworthy." 

Miss  Greylston  laid  her  finger  upon  her  brother's  lips. 

"  Nor  will  I  listen  to  you  blaming  yourself  so  heavily 
any  longer.  John,  you  had  cause  to  be  angry  with  me ; 
T  was  unreasonably  urgent  about  the  trees,"  and  she 
sighed  ;  "  I  forgot  to  be  gentle  and  patient ;  so  you  see 
I  am  to  blame  as  well  as  yourself." 

"But  I  forgot  even  common  kindness  and  courtesy," 
he  said  gravely.  "  What  demon  was  in  my  heart,  Mar- 
garet, I  do  not  know.  Avarice,  I  am  afraid,  was  at  the 
bottom  o^  alJ  this,  for  rich  as  I  am,  I  somehow  felt  very 


JOHN    AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON  249 

obstinate  about  running  into  any  more  expense  or  trouble 
about  the  road ;  and  then,  you  remember,  I  never  could 
love  inanimate  things  as  you  do.  But  from  this  time 
forth  I  will  try — and  the  pines" — 

"  Let  the  pines  go  down,  my  dear  brother,  I  see  now 
how  unreasonable  I  have  been,"  suddenly  interrupted 
Miss  Greylston ;  "  and  indeed  these  few  days  past  I 
could  not  look  at  them  with  any  pleasure ;  they  only 
reminded  me  of  our  separation.  Cut  them  down:  I 
will  not  say  one  word." 

"  Now,  what  a  very  woman  you  are,  Madge !  Just 
when  you  have  gained  your  will,  you  want  to  turn  about; 
but,  love,  the  trees  shall  not  come  down.  I  will  give 
them  to  you ;  and  you  cannot  refuse  my  peace-offering ; 
and  never,  whilst  John  Greylston  lives,  shall  an  axe 
touch  those  pines,  unless  you  say  so,  Margaret." 

He  laughed  when  he  said  this,  but  her  tears  were 
falling  fast. 

"Next  month  will  be  November;  then  comes  our 
birth-day ;  we  will  be  fifty  years  old,  Margaret.  Time 
is  hurrying  on  with  us ;  he  has  given  me  gray  locks,  and 
laid  some  wrinkles  on  your  dear  face  ;  but  that  is  nothing 
if  our  hearts  are  untouched.  0,  for  so  many  long  years, 
ever  since  my  Ellen  was  snatched  from  me," — and  here 
John  Greylston  paused  a  moment — "  you  have  been  to 
me  a  sweet,  faithful  comforter.  Madge,  dear  twin  sister, 
your  love  has  always  been  a  treasure  to  me;  but  you 
well  know  for  many  years  past  it  has  been  my  only 
earthly  treasure.  Henceforth,  God  helping  me,  I  "will 
seek  to  restrain  my  evil  temper.  I  will  be  mere  walcli- 


250  JOHN   AND    MARGARET    GREYLSTON. 

ful ;  if  sometimes  I  fail,  Margaret,  will  you  not  love  me, 
and  bear  with  me  ?" 

Was  there  any  need  for  that  question  ?  Miss  Marga- 
ret only  answered  by  clasping  her  brother's  hand  more 
closely  in  her  own.  As  they  stood  there  in  the  autumn 
sunlight,  united  so  lovingly,  hand  in  hand,  each  silently 
prayed  that  thus  it  might  be  with  them  always ;  not 
only  through  life's  autumn,  but  in  that  winter  so  surely 
for  them  approaching,  and  which  would  give  place  to  the 
fair  and  beautiful  spring  of  the  better  land. 

****** 

Annie  Bermond's  bright  face  looked  in  timidly  at  the 
open  door. 

"  Come  here,  darling,  come  and  stand  right  beside 
your  old  uncle  and  aunt,  and  let  us  thank  you  with  all 
our  hearts  for  the  good  you  have  done  us.  Don't  cry 
any  more,  Margaret.  Why,  fairy,  what  is  the  matter 
with  you?"  for  Annie's  tears  were  falling  fast  upon  his 
hand. 

"  I  hardly  know,  Uncle  John  ;  I  never  felt  so  glad  in 
my  life  before,  but  I  cannot  help  crying.  Oh,  it  is  so 
sweet  to  think  the  cloud  has  gone." 

"  And  whose  dear  hand,  under  God's  blessing,  drove 
the  cloud  away,  but  yours,  my  child  ?" 

Annie  was  silent;  she  only  clung  the  tighter  to  her 
uncle's  arm,  and  Miss  Greylston  said,  with  a  beaming 
smile, 

"  Now,  Annie,  we  see  the  good  purpose  God  had  in 
Bending  you  here  to-day.  You  have  done  for  us  the 
blessed  work  of  a  peace-maker." 

****** 


JOHN   AND    MARGARET   GREYLSTON.  251 

Annie  had  always  been  dear  to  her  uncle  and  aunt, 
but  from  that  golden  autumn  day,  she  became,  if  such  a 
thing  could  be,  dearer  than  ever — bound  to  them  by  au 
exceedingly  sweet  tie. 

****** 

Years  went  by.  One  snowy  evening,  a  merry  Christ- 
tnas  party  was  gathered  together  in  the  wide  parlour  at 
Greylston  Cottage, — nearly  all  the  nephews  and  niecea 
•were  there.  Mrs.  Lennox,  the  "  Sophy"  of  earlier  days, 
with  her  husband ;  Richard  Bermond  and  his  pretty 
little  wife  were  amongst  the  number ;  and  Annie,  dear, 
bright  Annie — her  fair  face  only  the  fairer  and  sweeter 
for  time — sat,  talking  in  a  corner  with  young  Walter 
Selwyn.  John  Greylston  went  slowly  to  the  window, 
and  pushed  aside  the  curtains,  and  as  he  stood  there 
looking  out  somewhat  gravely  in  the  bleak  and  wintry 
night,  he  felt  a  soft  hand  touch  him,  and  he  turned  and 

D        *  ' 

found  Annie  Bermond  by  his  side. 

"  You  looked  so  lonely,  my  dear  uncle." 

"  And  that  is  the  reason  you  deserted  Walter  ?"  he 
said,  laughing.  "  Well,  I  will  soon  send  you  back  to 
him.  But,  look  out  here  first,  Annie,  and  tell  me  what 
you  see ;"  and  she  laid  her  face  close  to  the  window-pane, 
and,  after  a  minute's  silence,  said, 

"  I  see  the  ground  white  with  snow,  the  sky  gleaming 
with  stars,  and  the  dear  old  pines,  tall  and  stately  as 
ever." 

"Yes,  the  pines;  that  is  what  I  meant,  my  child. 
Ah,  they  have  been  my  silent  monitors  ever  since  that 
day  ;  you  remember  it,  Annie  !  Bless  you,  child  !  how 
much  good  vou  lid  us  then." 


252  JOHN    AND    MARGARET    GREYLSTON. 

But  Annie  ^as  silently  crying  beside  him.  John 
Greyl&ton  wiped  his  eyes,  and  then  he  called  his  sister 
Margaret  to  the  window. 

"  Annie  and  I  have  been  looking  at  the  old  pines,  and 
you  can  guess  what  we  were  thinking  about.  As  for 
myself,"  he  added,  "I  never  see  those  trees  without 
feeling  saddened  and  rebuked.  I  never  recall  that 
season  of  error,  without  the  deepest  shame  and  grief. 
And  still  the  old  pines  stand.  Well,  Madge,  one  day 
they  will  shade  our  graves ;  and  of  late  I  have  thought 
that  day  would  dawn  very  soon." 

Annie  Bermond  let  the  curtain  fall  very  slowly  for- 
ward, and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands ;  but  the  two 
old  pilgrims  by  her  side,  John  and  Margaret  Greylston, 
looked  at  each  other  with  a  smile  of  hope  and  joy.  They 
had  long  been  "good  and  faithful  servants,"  and  now 
they  awaited  the  coming  of  "the  Master,"  with  a  calm, 
sweet  patience,  knowing  it  would  be  well  with  them, 
when  He  would  call  them  hence. 

The  pines  creaked  mournfully  in  the  winter  wind,  and 
the  stars  looked  down  upon  bleak  wastes,  and  snow- 
shrouded  meadows ;  yet  the  red  blaze  heaped  blithely 
on  the  hearth,  taking  in,  in  its  fair  light,  the  merry 
circle  sitting  side  by  side,  and  the  thoughtful  little  group 
standing  so  quietly  by  the  window.  *  *  *  And 
even  now  the  picture  fades,  and  is  gone.  The  curtain 
falls — the  story  of  John  and  Margaret  Greylston  is 
ended. 


THE  WORLD  WOULD  BE  THE  BETTER  FOR  IT. 

IF  men  cared  less  for  wealth  and  fame, 
And  less  for  battle-fields  and  glory ; 
If,  writ  in  human  hearts,  a  name 

Seemed  better  than  in  song  and  story ; 
If  men,  instead  of  nursing  pride, 

Would  learn  to  hate  and  to  abhor  it — 
If  more  relied 
On  Love  to  guide, 
The  world  would  be  the  better  for  it. 

If  men  dealt  less  in  stocks  and  lands, 

And  more  in  bonds  and  deeds  fraternal; 
If  Love's  work  had  more  willing  hands 

To  link  this  world  to  the  supernal ; 
If  men  stored  up  Love's  oil  and  wine, 
And  on  bruised  human  hearts  would  pour  it; 
If  "  yours"  and  "  mine" 
Would  once  combine, 
The  world  would  be  the  better  for  it. 

If  more  would  act  the  play  of  Life, 

And  fewer  spoil  it  in  rehearsal ; 
If  Bigotry  would  sheathe  its  knife 

Till  Good  became  more  universal; 
If  Custom,  gray  with  ages  grown, 
Had  fewer  blind  men  to  adore  it— 
If  talent  shone 
In  truth  alone, 
Tho  world  wuuld  be  the  better  for  it. 


254  TWO    SIDES   TO   A   STORY. 

If  men  were  wise  in  little  things — 

Affecting  less  in  all  their  dealings — 
If  hearts  had  fewer  rusted  strings 
To  isolate  their  kindly  feelings ; 
If  men,  when  Wrong  beats  down  the  Right, 
Would  strike  together  and  restore  i^— 
If  Right  made  Might 
In  every  fight, 
The  world  would  be  the  better  for  it 


TWO  SIDES  TO  A  STORY. 

"  HAVE  you  seen  much  of  your  new  neighbours,  yet  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Morris,  as  she  stepped  in  to  have  an  hour's 
social  chat  with  her  old  friend,  Mrs.  Freeman. 

"  Very  little,"  was  the  reply.  "  Occasionally  I  have 
seen  the  lady  walking  in  her  garden,  and  have  some- 
times watched  the  sports  of  the  children  on  the  side- 
walk, hut  this  is  all.  It  is  not  like  the  country,  you 
know.  One  may  live  here  for  years,  and  not  become 
acquainted  with  the  next-door  neighbours." 

"  Some  may  do  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Morris,  "  but,  for 
my  part,  I  always  like  to  know  something  of  those  around 
me.  It  is  not  always  desirable  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  near  neighbours,  but  by  a  little  observation  it  is 
very  easy  to  gain  an  insight  into  their  characters  and 
position  in  society.  The  family  which  has  moved  into 
the  house  next  to  yours,  for  instance,  lived  near  to  me 
for  nearly  two  years,  and  although  I  never  spoke  to  one 


TWO    SIDES    TO   A   STORT.  255 

of  them,  1  can  tell  you  of  some  strange  transactions 
which  took  place  in  their  house." 

"  Indeed  !"  replied  Mrs.  Freeman,  with  little  manifes- 
tation of  interest  or  curiosity ;  but  Mrs.  Morris  was  too 
eager  to  communicate  her  information  to  notice  her 
friend's  manner,  and  lowering  her  voice  to  a  confidential 
tone,  continued  : — 

'"  There  is  an  old  lady  in  their  family  whom  they 
abuse  in  the  most  shocking  manner.  She  is  very  rich, 
and  they  by  threats  and  ill-treatment  extort  large  sums 
of  money  from  her." 

"  A  singular  way  of  inducing  any  one  to  bestow 
favours,"  replied  Mrs.  Freeman,  dryly.  "  Why  does  not 
the  old  lady  leave  there  ?" 

"Bless  your  heart,  my  dear  friend,  she  cannot  get  an 
opportunity  !  They  never  suffer  her  to  leave  the  house 
unattended.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  she  succeeded  in 
getting  into  the  street,  but  they  discovered  her  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  actually  forced  her  into  the  house.  You  smile 
incredulously,  but  if  you  had  been  an  eye-witness  of 
their  proceedings,  as  I  have,  or  had  heard  the  screams 
of  the  poor  creature,  and  the  heavy  blows  which  they 
inflict,  you  would  be  convinced  of  the  truth  of  what  I 
tell  you." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  the  truth  of  your  story  in  the  least, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Morris.  I  only  think  that  in  this  case,  aa 
in  most  others,  there  must  be  two  sides  to  the  story.  It 
is  almost  incredible  that  such  barbarous  treatment  could 
continue  for  any  great  length  of  time  without  discovery 
and  exposure." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  people  are  not  fond  of  getting  them 


256  TWO    SIDES   TO   A   STORY. 

selves  into  trouble  by  meddling  with  their  neighbours' 
affairs.  I  am  very  cautious  about  it  myself.  I  would 
not  have  mentioned  this  matter  to  any  one  but  an  old 
friend  like  yourself.  It  seemed  best  to  put  you  on  your 
guard." 

"  Thank  you,"  was  the  smiling  reply.  "  It  is  hardly 
probable  that  I  shall  be  called  upon  to  make  any  ac- 
quaintance with  my  new  neighbours ;  but  if  I  am,  I  cer- 
tainly shall  not  forget  your  caution." 

Satisfied  that  she  had  succeeded,  at  least  partially,  in 
awakening  the  suspicions  of  her  friend,  Mrs.  Morris  took 
her  departure,  while  Mrs.  Freeman,  quite  undisturbed 
by  her  communications,  continued  her  usual  quiet  round 
of  domestic  duties,  thinking  less  of  the  affairs  of  her 
neighbours  than  of  those  of  her  own  household. 

Occasionally  she  saw  the  old  lady  whom  Mrs.  Morris 
had  mentioned  walking  in  the  adjoining  garden,  some- 
times alone,  and  sometimes  accompanied  by  the  lady  of 
the  house,  or  one  of  the  children.  There  was  nothing 
striking  in  her  appearance.  She  looked  cheerful  and 
contented,  and  showed  no  signs  of  confinement  or  abuse. 
Once,  when  Mrs.  Freeman  was  in  her  garden,  she  had 
looked  over  the  fence,  and  praised  the  beauty  of  her 
flowers,  and  when  a  bunch  was  presented  to  her,  had  re- 
ceived them  with  that  almost  childish  delight  which  aged 
people  often  manifest. 

Weeks  passed  on,  and  the  remarks  of  Mrs.  Morris 
were  almost  forgotten,  when  Mrs.  Freeman  was  aroused 
one  night  by  loud  cries,  apparently  proceeding  from  the 
adjoining  house ;  and  on  listening  intently  could  plainly 
distinguish  the  sound  of  heavy  blows,  and  also  the  voice 


TWO    SIDES   TO   A   STORY.  257 

of  the  old  lady  in  question,  as  if  in  earnest  expostula- 
tion and  entreaty. 

Mrs.  Freeman  aroused  her  husband,  and  together 
they  listened  in  anxiety  and  alarm.  For  nearly  an  hour 
the  sounds  continued,  but  at  length  all  was  again  quiet. 
It  was  long,  however,  before  they  could  compose  them- 
selves to  rest.  It  was  certainly  strange  and  unaccount- 
able, and  there  was  something  so  inhuman  in  the  thought 
of  abusing  an  aged  woman  that  their  hearts  revolted  at 
the  idea. 

Still  Mrs.  Freeman  maintained,  as  was  her  wont,  that 
there  must  be  two  sides  to  the  story ;  and  after  vainly 
endeavouring  to  imagine  what  the  other  side  could  be,  she 
fell  asleep,  and  was  undisturbed  until  morning. 

All  seemed  quiet  the  next  day,  and  Mrs.  Freeman 
had  somewhat  recovered  from  the  alarm  of  the  previous 
night,  when  she  was  again  visited  by  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Morris.  As  usual,  she  had  confidential  communications 
to  make,  and  particularly  wished  the  advice  of  Mrs. 
Freeman  in  a  matter  which  she  declared  weighed  heavily 
upon  her  mind  ;  and  being  assured  that  they  should  be 
undisturbed,  began  at  once  to  impart  the  weighty  secret. 

"  You  remember  Mrs.  Dawson,  who  went  with  her 
husband  to  Europe,  a  year  or  two  ago  ?" 

"Certainly  I  do,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  her." 

"  Do  you  recollect  a  girl  who  had  lived  with  her  for 
several  years  ?  I  think  her  name  was  Mary  Berkly." 

"•  Quite  well.  Mrs.  Dawson  placed  great  confidence 
in  her,  and  wished  to  take  her  abroad,  but  Mary  was 
engaged  to  an  honest  carpenter,  in  good  business,  and 
17 


258  TWO    SIDES   TO   A    STORY. 

wisely  preferred  a  comfortable  house  in  her  own  coun 

try.' 

"  She  had  other  reasons,  I  suspect,"  replied  Mrs. 
Morris,  mysteriously,  "  but  you  will  hear.  This  Mary 
Berkly,  or  as  she  is  now  called,  Mary  White,  lives  not 
far  from  my  present  residence.  Her  husband  is  com- 
fortably off,  and  his  wife  is  not  obliged  to  work,  except- 
ing in  her  own  family,  but  still  she  will  occasionally,  aa 
a  favour,  do  up  a  few  muslins  for  particular  persons. 
You  know  she  was  famous  for  her  skill  in  those  things. 
The  other  day,  having  a  few  pieces  which  I  was  particu- 
larly anxious  to  have  look  nice,  I  called  upon  her  to  see 
if  she  would  wash  them  for  me.  She  was  not  at  home, 
but  her  little  niece,  who  lives  with  her,  a  child  of  four 
years  old,  said  that  Aunt  Mary  would  be  in  directly,  and 
asked  me  to  walk  into  the  parlour.  I  did  so,  and  the 
little  thing  stood  by  my  side  chattering  away  like  a  mag- 
pie. In  reply  to  my  questions  as  to  whether  she  liked 
to  live  with  her  aunt,  what  she  amused  herself  with, 
&c.,  &c.,  she  entered  into  a  long  account  of  her  various 
playthings,  and  ended  by  saying  that  she  would  show 
me  a  beautiful  new  doll  which  her  good  uncle  had  given 
her,  if  I  would  please  to  unlock  the  door  of  a  closet  near 
where  I  was  sitting,  as  she  could  not  turn  the  key. 

"  To  please  the  child  I  unlocked  the  door.  She  threw 
it  wide  open,  and  to  my  astonishment  I  saw  that  it  was 
filled  with  valuable  silver  plate,  china,  and  other  arti- 
cles of  similar  kind,  some  of  which  I  particularly  re- 
membered having  seen  at  Mrs.  Dawson's." 

"Perhaps  she  gave  them  to  Mary,"  suggested  Mrs 
Freoman  "  She  was  quite  attached  to  her." 


TWO    SIDES    TO    A    STORY.  259 

"  Impossible  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morris.  "  Valuable 
silver  plate  is  not  often  given  to  servants.  But  I  have 
not  jet  finished.  Just  as  the  child  had  found  the  doll 
Mrs.  White  entered,  and  on  seeing  the  closet-door  open, 
said  sternly  to  the  child, 

"  '  Rosy,  you  did  very  wrong  to  open  that  door  with- 
out my  leave.  I  shall  not  let  you  take  your  doll  again 
for  a  week  ;'  and  looking  very  red  and  confused,  she 
hastily  closed  it,  and  turned  the  key.  Now,  to  my  mind, 
these  are  suspicious  circumstances,  particularly  as  I  re- 
collect that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dawson  were  robbed  of  silver 
plate  shortly  before  they  went  to  Europe,  and  no  trace 
could  be  found  of  the  thieves." 

"True,"  replied  Mrs.  Freeman,  thoughtfully;  "I 
recollect  the  robbery  very  well.  Still  I  cannot  believe 
that  Mary  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  I  was  always 
pleased  with  her  modest  manner,  and  thought  her  an 
honest,  capable  girl." 

"  She  is  very  smooth-faced,  I  know,"  answered  Mrs. 
Morris,  "  but  appearances  are  certainly  against  her.  I 
am  confident  that  the  articles  I  saw  belonged  to  Mrs. 
Dawson." 

"  There  may  be  another  side  to  the  story,  however," 
remarked  her  friend  ;  "  but  why  not  mention  your  suspi- 
cions to  Mrs.  Dawson  ?  You  know  she  has  returned,  and 
is  boarding  in  the  upper  part  of  the  city.  I  have  her 
address,  somewhere." 

"  I  know  where  she  lives ;  but  would  you  really  ad- 
vise me  to  meddle  with  the  affair  ?  I  shall  make  enemies 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  White,  if  they  hear  of  it,  and  I  like  to 
have  the  good-will  cf  all,  both  rich  and  poor." 


260  TWO    SIDES    TO    A    STORY. 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  Mary  would  take  anything 
wrongfully,"  replied  Mrs.  Freeman  ;  "  but  if  my  suspi- 
cions were  us  fully  aroused  as  yours  seem  to  be,  I  pre- 
sume I  should  mention  what  I  saw  to  Mrs.  Dawson,  if  it 
were  only  for  the  sake  of  hearing  the  other  side  of  the 
story,  and  thus  removing  such  unpleasant  doubts  from 
my  mind.  And,  indeed,  if  you  really  think  that  the 
articles  which  you  saw  were  stolen,  it  becomes  your  duty 
to  inform  the  owners  thereof,  or  you  become,  in  a  mea- 
Bure,  a  partaker  of  the  theft." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Morris,  rising,  "  and  in 
that  way  I  might  ultimately  gain  the  ill-will  of  Mrs. 
Dawson  ;  therefore  I  think  I  will  go  at  once  and  tell  her 
my  suspicions." 

"  Which,  I  am  convinced,  you  will  find  erroneous," 
replied  Mrs.  Freeman. 

"  We  shall  see,"  was  the  answer  of  her  friend,  accom- 
panied by  an  ominous  shake  of  the  head  ;  and  promising 
to  call  upon  Mrs.  Freeman  on  her  return,  she  took 
leave. 

During  her  absence,  the  alarming  cries  from  the  next 
house  were  again  heard ;  and  presently  the  old  lady  ap- 
peared on  the  side-walk,  apparently  in  great  agitation 
and  alarm,  and  gazing  wildly  about  her,  as  if  seeking  a 
place  of  refuge ;  but  she  was  instantly  seized  in  the 
forcible  manner  Mrs.  Morris  had  described,  and  carried 
into  the  house. 

"  This  is  dreadful !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Freeman.  "  What 
excuse  can  there  be  for  such  treatment  ?"  and  for  a  mo- 
ment her  heart  was  filled  with  indignation  toward  her 
supposed  barbarous  neighbours ;  but  a  little  reflection 


TWO    SIDES    TO   A    STORY.  261 

caused  her  still  to  suspend  her  judgment,  and  endeavour 
to  learn  both  sides  of  the  story. 

As  she  sat  ruminating  on  this  singular  occurrence, 
and  considering  what  was  her  duty  in  regard  to  it,  she 
was  aroused  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Morris,  who,  with 
tin  air  of  vexation  and  disappointment,  threw  herself 
upon  the  nearest  chair,  exclaiming, 

"  A  pretty  piece  of  work  I  have  been  about!  It  ia 
all  owing  to  your  advice,  Mrs.  Freeman.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  you  I  should  not  have  made  such  a  fool  of 
myself." 

"  Why,  what  has  happened  to  you  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Free- 
man, anxiously.  "  What  advice  have  I  given  you  which 
has  caused  trouble?" 

"  You  recommended  my  calling  upon  Mrs.  Dawson, 
did  you  not?" 

"  Certainly :  I  thought  it  the  easiest  way  to  relieve 
your  mind  from  painful  suspicions.  What  did  she  say  ?" 

u  Say  !  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  look  she  gave 
me  when  I  told  her  what  I  saw  at  Mrs.  White's.  You 
know  her  haughty  manner  ?  She  thanked  me  for  the 
trouble  I  had  taken  on  her  account,  and  begged  leave  to 
assure  me  that  she  had  perfect  confidence  in  the  honesty 
of  Mrs.  White.  The  articles  which  had  caused  me  so 
much  unnecessary  anxiety  were  intrusted  to  her  caro 
when  they  went  to  Europe,  and  it  had  not  yet  been  con- 
venient to  reclaim  them.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  con- 
temptuously she  spoke.  I  never  felt  so  mortified  in  mj 
life." 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  feeling  so,  if  your  inten- 
tions were  good,"  answered  Mrs.  Freeman;  "and  cor- 


.J62  TWO    SIDES   TO    A    STORY. 

tainly  it  must  be  a  relief  to  you  to  hear  the  other  side 
of  the  story.  Nothing  less  would  have  convinced  you 
of  Mrs.  White's  honesty." 

Mrs.  Morris  was  prevented  from  replying  by  the  sud- 
den and  violent  ringing  of  the  bell,  and  an  instant  after 
the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  old  lady,  whose  sup- 
posed unhappy  condition  had  called  forth  their  sympa- 
thies, rushed  into  the  room. 

"  Oh,  save  me  !  save  me  !"  she  exclaimed,  frantically. 
"  I  am  pursued, — protect  me,  for  the  love  of  Heaven  !" 

"  Poor  creature  !"  said  Mrs.  Morris.  "  You  see  that 
I  was  not  mistaken  in  this  story,  at  least.  There  can 
be  no  two  sides  to  thie." 

"Depend  upon  it  there  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Freeman; 
but  she  courteously  invited  her  visiter  to  be  seated,  and 
begged  to  know  what  had  occasioned  her  so  much  alarm. 

The  poor  lady  told  a  plausible  and  piteous  tale  of  ill- 
treatment,  and,  indeed,  actual  abuse.  Mrs.  Morris 
listened  with  a  ready  ear,  and  loudly  expressed  her 
horror  and  indignation.  Mrs.  Freeman  was  more  guard- 
ed. There  was  something  in  the  old  lady's  appearance 
and  manners  that  excited  an  undefinable  feeling  of  fear 
and  aversion.  Mrs.  Freeman  felt  much  perplexed  as  to 
the  course  she  ought  to  pursue,  and  looked  anxiously  at 
the  clock  to  see  if  the  time  for  her  husband's  return  was 
near. 

It  still  wanted  nearly  two  hours,  and  after  a  little 
more  consideration  she  decided  to  go  herself  into  the 
next  door,  ask  for  an  interview  with  the  lady  of  the 
house,  frankly  state  what  had  taken  place,  and  demand 
an  explanation.  This  resolution  she  communicated  in  a 


TWO    SIDES   TO   A   STORY.  263 

low  voice  to  Mrs.  Morris,  who  opposed  it  as  imprudent 
and  ill-judged. 

"  Of  course  they  will  deny  the  charge,"  she  argued, 
"  and  by  letting  them  know  where  the  poor  creature  haa 
taken  shelter,  you  will  again  expose  her  to  their  cruelty. 
Besides,  you  will  get  yourself  into  trouble.  My  advice 
to  you  is  to  keep  quiet  until  your  husband  returns,  and 
then  to  assist  the  poor  lady  secretly  to  go  to  her  frienda 
in  the  country,  who  she  says  will  gladly  receive  her." 

"  But  I  am  anxious  to  hear  both  sides  of  the  story 
before  I  decide  to  assist  her,"  replied  Mrs.  Freeman. 

"  Nonsense  !"  exclaimed  her  friend.  "  Even  you 
must  see  that  there  cannot  be  two  sides  to  this  story. 
There  is  no  possible  excuse  for  cruelty,  and  to  an  inoffen- 
Bive,  aged  woman." 

While  they  were  thus  consulting  together,  their  visiter 
regarded  them  with  a  troubled  look,  and  a  fierce  gleam- 
ing eye,  which  did  not  escape  Mrs.  Freeman's  observa- 
tion ;  and  just  as  Mrs.  Morris  finished  speaking,  the 
maniac  sprang  upon  her,  like  a  tiger  on  his  prey,  and, 
seizing  her  by  the  throat,  demanded  what  new  mischief 
was  plotting  against  her. 

The  screams  of  the  terrified  women  drew  the  atten- 
tion of  the  son  of  the  old  lady,  who  had  just  discovered 
her  absence,  and  was  hastening  in  search  of  her.  At 
once  suspecting  the  tru*h,  he  rushed  without  ceremony 
into  his  neighbour's  house,  and  speedily  rescued  Mrs. 
Morris  from  her  unpleasant  and  somewhat  dangerous 
situation.  After  conveying  his  mother  to  her  own  room, 
and  consigning  her  to  strict  custody,  he  returned,  'and 


264  TWO    SIDES   TO   A   STORY. 

respectfully  apologized  to  Mrs.  Freeman  for  what  had 
taken  place. 

"  His  poor  mother,"  he  said,  "  had  for  several  yeara 
been  subject  to  occasional  fits  of  insanity.  Generally 
she  had  appeared  harmless,  excepting  as  regarded  her- 
self. Unless  prevented  by  force,  she  would  sometimes 
beat  her  own  flesh  in  a  shocking  manner,  uttering  at  the 
same  time  loud  cries  and  complaints  of  the  abuse  of 
those  whom  she  supposed  to  be  tormenting  her. 

"  In  her  lucid  intervals  she  had  so  earnestly  besought 
them  not  to  place  her  in  the  asylum  for  the  insane,  but 
to  continue  to  bear  with  her  under  their  own  roof,  that 
they  had  found  it  impossible  to  refuse  their  solemn  pro- 
mise to  comply  with  her  wishes. 

"  For  themselves,  their  love  for  her  rendered  them 
willing  to  bear  with  her  infirmities,  but  it  should  be  their 
earnest  care  that  their  neighbours  should  not  again  be 
disturbed." 

Mrs.  Freeman  kindly  expressed  her  sympathy  and 
forgiveness  for  the  alarm  which  she  had  experienced,  and 
the  gentleman  took  leave. 

Poor  Mrs.  Morris  had  remained  perfectly  silent  sinctf 
her  release ;  but  as  the  door  closed  on  their  visiter,  and 
her  friend  kindly  turned  to  inquire  how  she  found  herself, 
she  recovered  her  speech,  and  exclaimed,  energetically, 

"  I  will  never,  never  say  again  that  there  are  not  two 
sides  to  a  story.  If  I  am  ever  tempted  to  believe  one 
Bide  without  waiting  to  hear  the  other,  I  shall  surely  feel 
again  the  hands  of  that  old  witch  upon  my  throat." 

"  Old  witch  !"  repeated  Mrs.  Freeman.  "  Surely  sha 
demands  our  sympathy  as  much  as  when  we  thought  hey 


LITTLE   KINDNESSES.  265 

Buffering  under  ill-treatment.  It  is  indeed  a  sad  thing 
to  be  bereft  of  reason.  But  this  will  be  a  useful  lesson 
to'  both  of  us  :  for  I  will  readily  acknowledge  that  in 
this  instance  I  was  sometimes  tempted  to  forget  that 
there  are  always  '  two  sides  to  a  story.'  " 


LITTLE  KINDNESSES. 

NOT  long  since,  it  was  announced  that  a  large  fortune 
had  been  left  to  a  citizen  of  the  United  States  by  a 
foreigner,  who,  some  years  before,  had  "become  ill" 
while  travelling  in  this  country,  and  whose  sick-bed  wa8 
watched  with  the  utmost  care  and  kindness  by  the  citi- 
zen referred  to.  The  stranger  recovered,  continued  hia 
journey,  and  finally  returned  to  his  own  country.  The 
conduct  of  the  American  at  a  moment  so  critical,  and 
when,  without  relatives  or  friends,  the  invalid  was  lan- 
guishing in  a  strange  land,  was  not  forgotten.  He  re- 
membered it  in  his  thoughtful  and  meditative  moments, 
and  when  about  to  prepare  for  another  world,  his  grati- 
tude was  manifested  in  a  truly  signal  manner.  A  year 
or  two  ago,  an  individual  in  this  city  was  labouring 
under  great  pecuniary  difficulty.  He  was  unexpectedly 
called  upon  for  a  considerable  sum  of  money ;  and,  al- 
though his  means  were  abundant,  they  were  not  at  that 
time  immediately  available.  Puzzled  and  perplexed, 
he  hesitated  as  to  his  best  course,  when,  by  the  merest 
chance,  he  met  an  old  acquaintance,  and  incidentally 
mentioned  the  facts  of  the  case.  The  other  referred  to 


266  LITTLE    KINDNESSES. 

an  act  of  kindness  that  he  had  experienced  years  before, 
eaid  that  he  had  never  forgotten  it,  and  that  nothing 
would  afford  him  more  pleasure  than  to  extend  the  relief 
that  was  required,  and  thus  show  his  grateful  apprecia- 
tion of  the  courtesy  of  former  years  !  The  kindness 
alluded  to  was  a  mere  trifle,  comparatively  speaking, 
and  its  recollection  had  passed  entirely  from  the  memo- 
ry of  the  individual  who  had  performed  it.  Not  so, 
however,  with  the  obliged.  He  had  never  forgotten  it, 
and  the  result  proved,  in  the  most  conclusive  manner, 
that  he  was  deeply  grateful. 

We  have  mentioned  the  two  incidents  with  the  object 
of  inculcating  the  general  policy  of  courtesy  and  kind- 
ness, of  sympathy  and  assistance,  in  our  daily  inter- 
course with  our  fellow-creatures.  It  is  the  true  course 
under  all  circumstances.  "Little  kindnesses"  sometimes 
make  an  impression  that  "lingers  and  lasts"  for  years. 
This  is  especially  the  case  with  the  sensitive,  the  gene- 
rous, and  the  high-minded.  And  how  much  may  be 
accomplished  by  this  duty  of  courtesy  and  humanity ! 
How  the  paths  of  life  may  be  smoothed  and  softened ! 
How  the  present  may  be  cheered,  and  the  future  ren- 
dered bright  and  beautiful ! 

There  are,  it  is  true,  some  selfish  spirits,  who  can  nei- 
ther appreciate  nor  reciprocate  a  courteous  or  a  generous 
act.  They  are  for  themselves — "now  and  for  ever" — 
if  we  may  employ  such  a  phrase — and  appear  never  to 
be  satisfied.  You  can  never  do  enough  for  them.  Nay, 
the  deeper  fhe  obligation,  the  colder  the  heart.  They 
grow  jealous,  distrustful,  and  finally  begin  to  hate  their 
benefactors.  But  these,  we  trust,  are  "the  exceptions," 


LITTLE   KINDNESSES.  207 

not  "the  rule."  Many  a  heart  has  been  won,  many  a 
friendship  has  been  secured,  many  a  position  has  boon 
acquired,  through  the  exercise  of  such  little  kindnesses 
and  courtesies  as  are  natural  to  the  generous  in  spirit 
end  the  noble  of  soul — to  all,  indeed,  who  delight,  net 
only  in  promoting  their  own  prosperity,  but  in  contribut- 
ing to  the  welfare  of  every  member  of  the  human  family. 
Who  cannot  remember  some  incident  of  his  own  life,  in 
which  an  individual,  then  and  perhaps  now  a  stranger — 
one  who  has  not  been  seen  for  years,  and  never  may  be 
seen  again  on  this  side  the  grave,  manifested  the  true, 
the  genuine,  the  gentle  spirit  of  a  gentleman  and  & 
Christian,  in  some  mere  trifle — some  little  but  impulsive 
and  spontaneous  act,  which  nevertheless  developed  the 
whole  heart,  and  displayed  the  real  character !  Dis- 
tance and  time  may  separate,  and  our  pursuits  and 
vocations  may  be  in  paths  distinct,  dissimilar,  and  far 
apart.  Yet,  there  are  moments — quiet,  calm,  and  con- 
templative, when  memory  will  wander  back  to  the  inci- 
dents referred  to,  and  we  will  feel  a  secret  bond  of 
affinity,  friendship,  and  brotherhood.  The  name  will 
be  mentioned  with  respect  if  not  affection,  and  a  desire 
will  be  experienced  to  repay,  in  some  way  or  on  some 
occasion,  the  generous  courtesy  of  the  by-gone  time.  It 
is  so  easy  to  be  civil  and  obliging,  to  be  kindly  and  hu- 
mane !  We  not  only  thus  assist  the  comfort  of  others, 
but  we  promote  our  own  mental  enjoyment.  Life,  more- 
over,  is  full  of  chances  and  changes.  A  few  years, 
sometimes,  produce  extraordinary  revolutions  in  the 
fortunes  of  men.  The  haughty  of  to-day  may  be  the 
humble  of  to  morrow  ;  the  feeble  may  be  the  powerful : 


268  LEAVING  OFF  CONTENTION 

the  rich  may  be  the  poor.  But,  if  elevated  by  affluence 
or  by  position,  the  greater  the  necessity,  the  stronger 
the  duty  to  be  kindly,  courteous,  and  conciliatory  to 
those  less  fortunate.  We  can  afford  to  be  so ;  and  a 
proper  appreciation  of  our  position,  a  due  sympathy  for 
the  misfortunes  of  others,  and  a  grateful  acknowledg- 
ment to  Divine  Providence,  require  that  we  should  be 
so.  Life  is  short  at  best.  We  are  here  a  few  years — 
we  sink  into  the  grave — and  even  our  memory  is  phan- 
tom-like and  evanescent.  How  plain,  then,  is  our  duty  ! 
It  is  to  be  true  to  our  position,  to  our  conscience,  and 
to  the  obligations  imposed  upon  us  by  society,  by  cir- 
cumstances, and  by  our  responsibility  to  the  Author  of 
all  that  is  beneficent  and  good. 


LEAVING  OFF  CONTENTION  BEFORE  IT  BE  MEDDLED 
WITH. 

WE  are  advised  to  leave  off  contention  before  it  be 
meddled  with,  by  one  usually  accounted  a  very  wise  man. 
Had  he  never  given  the  world  any  other  evidence  of 
superior  wisdom,  this  admonition  alone  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  have  established  his  claims  thereto.  It  showa 
that  he  had  power  to  penetrate  to  the  very  root  of  a 
large  share  of  human  misery.  For  what  is  the  great 
evil  in  our  condition  here?  Is  it  not  misunderstanding, 
disagreement,  alienation,  contention,  and  the  passions 
and  results  flowing  from  these  ?  Are  not  contempt, 


BEFORE   IT   BE    MEDDLED   WITH.  269 

and  hatred,  and  strife,  and  altercation,  and  slander,  and 
evil-speaking,  the  things  hardest  to  bear,  and  most  pro- 
lific of  suffering,  in  the  lot  of  human  life  ?  The  worst 
woes  of  life  are  such  as  spring  from  these  sources. 

Is  there  any  cure  for  these  maladies?  Is  there  any- 
thing  to  prevent  or  abate  these  exquisite  sufferings? 
The  wise  man  directs  our  attention  to  a  remedial  pre- 
ventive in  the  advice  above  referred  to.  His  counsel  to 
those  whose  lot  unites  them  in  the  same  local  habitations 
and  name  ;  to  those  who  are  leagued  in  friendship  or 
ousiness,  in  the  changes  of  sympathy  and  the  chances 
of  collision,  is,  to  suppress  anger  or  dissatisfaction,  to 
t)e  e.uidid  and  charitable  in  judging,  and,  by  all  means, 
to  leave  off  contention  before  it  be  meddled  with.  His 
counsel  to  all  is  to  endure  injury  meekly,  not  to  give 
expression  to  the  sense  of  wrong,  even  when  we  might 
Aeeoi  justified  in  resistance  or  complaint.  His  counsel 
is  t->  yield  something  we  might  fairly  claim,  to  pardon 
when  we  night  punish,  to  sacrifice  somewhat  of  our 
rights  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  friendly  affection.  His 
counsel  is  not  to  fire  at  every  provocation,  not  to  return 
evil  for  evil,  not  to  cherish  any  fires  of  revenge,  burning 
to  bo  even  with  the  injurious  person.  His  counsel  is  to 
curb  our  imperiousness,  to  repress  our  impatience,  to 
pause  in  the  burst  of  another's  feeling,  to  pour  water 
upon  the  kindling  flames,  or,  at  the  very  least,  to  abstain 
from  adding  any  fresh  fuel  thereto. 

One  proof  of  the  superior  wisdom  of  this  counsel  is, 
that  few  seem  to  appreciate  or  perceive  it.  To  many  it 
seems  no  great  virtue  or  wisdom,  no  great  and  splendid 
thing,  in.  some  small  issue  of  feeling  or  opinion,  in  the 


270  LEAVING   OFF   CONTENTION 

family  or  among  friends,  to  withhold  a  little,  to  tighteii 
the  rein  upon  some  headlong  propensity,  and  await  « 
calm  for  fair  adjustment.  Such  a  course  is  not  usually 
held  to  be  a  proof  of  wisdom  or  virtue ;  arid  men  are 
much  more  ready  to  praise  and  think  well  of  smartness, 
and  spirit,  and  readiness  for  an  encounter.  To  leave 
off  contention  before  it  is  meddled  with  does  not  com- 
mand any  very  general  admiration ;  it  is  too  quiet  a 
virtue,  with  no  striking  attitudes,  and  with  lips  which 
answer  nothing.  This  is  too  often  mistaken  for  dullness, 
and  want  of  proper  spirit.  It  requires  discernment  and 
superior  wisdom  to  see  a  beauty  in  such  repose  and  self 
control,  beyond  the  explosions  of  anger  and  retaliation 
With  the  multitude,  self-restraining  meekness  undei 
provocation  is  a  virtue  which  stands  quite  low  in  the 
catalogue.  It  is  very  frequently  set  down  as  pusillani- 
mity and  cravenness  of  spirit.  But  it  is  not  so;  for 
there  is  a  self-restraint  under  provocation  which  is  far 
from  being  cowardice,  or  want  of  feeling,  or  shrinking 
from  consequences ;  there  is  a  victory  over  passionate 
impulses  which  is  more  difficult  and  more  meritorious 
than  a  victory  on  the  bloody  battle-field.  It  requires 
more  power,  more  self-command,  often,  to  leave  off  con- 
tention, when  provocation  and  passion  are  causing  the 
blood  to  boil,  than  to  rush  into  it. 

Were  this  virtue  more  duly  appreciated,  and  the  ad- 
monition of  the  Wise  Man  more  extensively  heeded, 
what  a  change  would  be  effected  in  human  life  !  How 
many  of  its  keenest  sufferings  would  be  annihilated ! 
The  spark  which  kindles  many  great  fires  would  be  with- 
held ;  and,  great  as  are  the  evils  and  sufferings  caused 


BEFORE   IT   BE   MEDDLED    WITH.  271 

by  war,  they  are  not  as  great,  probably,  as  those  origi- 
nating in  impatience  and  want  of  temper.  The  fretful- 
ness  of  human  life,  it  seems  not  hard  to  believe,  is  a 
greater  evil,  and  destroys  more  happiness,  than  all  the 
bloody  scenes  of  the  battle-field.  The  evils  of  war  have 
generally  something  to  lighten  the  burden  of  them  in  a 
sense  of  necessity,  or  of  rights  or  honour  invaded ;  but 
there  is  nothing  of  like  importance  to  alleviate  the  suf- 
ferings caused  by  fretfulness,  impatience,  want  of  tem- 
per. The  excitable  peevishness  which  kindles  at  trifles, 
that  roughens  the  daily  experience  of  a  million  families, 
that  scatters  its  little  stings  at  the  table  and  by  the 
hearth-stone,  what  does  this  but  unmixed  harm  ?  What 
ingredient  does  it  furnish  but  of  gall  ?  Its  fine  wound- 
ing may  be  of  petty  consequence  in  any  given  case,  and 
its  tiny  darts  easily  extracted ;  but,  when  habitually 
carried  into  the  whole  texture  of  life,  it  destroys  more 
peace  than  plague  and  famine  and  the  sword.  It  is  a 
deeper  anguish  than  grief;  it  is  a  sharper  pang  than  the 
afflicted  moan  with  ;  it  is  a  heavier  pressure  from  tmman 
hands  than  when  affliction  lays  her  hand  upon  you.  All 
this  deduction  from  human  comfort,  all  this  addition  to 
human  suffering,  may  be  saved  by  heeding  the  admoni- 
tion of  wisdom  given  by  one  of  her  sons.  When  provoked 
by  the  follies  or  the  passions,  the  offences  or  neglects, 
the  angry  words  or  evil-speaking  of  others,  restrain 
your  propensity  to  complain  or  contend ;  leave  off  con- 
tention before  you  take  the  first  step  towards  it.  You 
will  then  be  greater  than  he  that  taketh  a  city.  You 
will  be  a  genial  companion  in  your  family  and  among 
your  neighbours.  You  will  be  loved  at  home  and  blessed 


272  LEAVING   OFF   CONTENTION 

abroad.  You  will  be  a  source  of  comfort  to  others,  and 
carry  a  consciousness  of  praiseworthiness  in  your  own 
bosom.  On  the  contrary,  an  acrid  disposition,  a  readi- 
ness to  enter  into  contention,  is  like  vinegar  to  the  teeth, 
like  caustic  to  an  open  sore.  It  eats  out  all  the  beauty, 
tenderness,  and  affection  of  domestic  and  social  life. 
For  all  this  the  remedy  is  simple.  Put  a  restraint  upon 
your  feelings ;  give  up  a  little ;  take  less  than  belongs 
to  you ;  endure  more  than  should  be  put  upon  you  ; 
make  allowance  for  another's  judgment  or  educational 
defects ;  consider  circumstances  and  constitution ;  leave 
off  contention  before  it  be  meddled  with.  If  you  do 
otherwise,  quick  resentment  and  stiff  maintenance  of 
your  position  will  breed  endless  disputes  and  bitterness. 
But  happy  will  be  the  results  of  the  opposite  course,  ac- 
complished every  day  and  every  hour  in  the  family,  with 
friends,  with  companions,  with  all  with  whom  you  have 
any  dealings  or  any  commerce  in  life. 

Let  any  one  set  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  this  vir- 
tue of  meekness  and  self-restraint,  and  he  will  find  that 
it  cannot  be  secured  by  one  or  a  few  efforts,  however 
resolute ;  by  a  few  struggles,  however  severe.  It  re- 
quires industrious  culture ;  it  requires  that  he  improve 
every  little  occasion  to  quench  strife  and  fan  concord, 
till  a  constant  sweetness  smooths  the  face  of  domestic 
life,  and  kindness  and  tenderness  become  the  very-ex- 
pression of  the  countenance.  This  virtue  of  self-control 
must  grow  by  degrees.  It  must  grow  by  a  succession 
of  abstinences  from  returning  evil  for  evil,  by  a  succes- 
sion of  leaving  off  contention  before  the  first  angry  word 
escapes. 


BEFORE    IT   BE    MEDDLED    WITH.  273 

It  may  help  to  cultivate  this  virtue,  to  practise  some 
forethought.  When  tempted  to  irritable,  censorious 
speech,  one  might  with  advantage  call  to  recollection 
the  times,  perhaps  frequent,  when  words  uttered  in  haste 
have  caused  sorrow  or  repentance.  Then,  again,  the 
fact  might  be  called  to  mind,  that  when  we  lose  a  friend, 
every  harsh  word  we  may  have  spoken  rises  to  condemn 
us.  There  is  a  resurrection,  not  for  the  dead  only,  but 
for  the  injuries  we  have  fixed  in  their  hearts — in  hearts, 
it  may  be,  bound  to  our  own,  and  to  which  we  owed 
gentleness  instead  of  harshness.  The  shafts  of  reproach, 
which  come  from  the  graves  of  those  who  have  been 
wounded  by  our  fretfulness  and  irritability,  are  often 
hard  to  bear.  Let  meek  forbearance  and  self-control 
prevent  such  suffering,  and  guard  us  against  the  con- 
demnations of  the  tribunal  within. 

There  is  another  tribunal,  also,  which  it  were  wise  to 
think  of  The  rule  of  that  tribunal  is,  that  if  we  for- 
give not  those  who  trespass  against  us,  we  ourselves  shall 
not  be  forgiven.  "  He  shall  have  judgment  without 
mercy  that  hath  showed  no  mercy."  Only,  then,  if  we 
do  not  need,  and  expect  never  to  beg  the  mercy  of  the 
Lord  to  ourselves,  may  we  withhold  our  mercy  from  oui 
fellow-men. 


It 


"ALL  THE  DAY  IDLE." 

WHEREFORE  idle? — when  the  harvest  beckoning, 
Nods  its  ripe  tassels  to  the  brightening  sky? 

Arise  and  labour  ere  the  time  of  reckoning, 
Ere  the  long  shadows  and  the  night  draw  nigh. 

Wherefore  idle? — Swing  the  sickle  stoutly! 

Bind  thy  rich  sheaves  exultingly  and  fast ! 
Nothing  dismayed,  do  thy  great  task  devoutly — 

Patient  and  strong,  and  hopeful  to  the  last ! 

Wherefore  idle? — Labour,  not  inaction, 
Is  the  soul's  birthright,  and  its  truest  rest; 

Up  to  thy  work ! — 'tis  Nature's  fit  exaction — 
He  who  toils  humblest,  bravest,  toils  the  best. 

Wherefore  idle  ? — God  himself  is  working ; 

His  great  thought  wearieth  not,  nor  standeth  attll, 
In  every  throb  of  his  vast  heart  is  lurking 

Some  mighty  purpose  of  his  mightier  will. 

Wherefore  idle? — Not  a  leaf's  slight  rustle 
But  chides  thee  in  thy  vain,  inglorious  rest ; 

Be  a  strong  actor  in  the  great  world, — bustle,— 
Not  a  weak  minion  or  a  pampered  guest  I 

Wherefore  idle  ? — Oh  !  my  faint  soul,  wherefore  ? 

Shake  first  from  thine  own  powers  dull  sloth's  controlj 
Then  lift  thy  voice  with  an  exulting  "  Therefore 

Thou,  t:>o,  shalt  conquer,  oh,  thou  striving  soul!** 


THE  BUSHEL  OF  CORN. 

FARMER  GRAY  had  a  neighbour  who  was  not  the  best 
tempered  man  in  the  world,  though  mainly  kind  and 
obliging.  He  was  a  shoemaker.  His  name  was  Barton. 
One  day,  in  harvest-time,  when  every  man  on  the  farm 
was  as  busy  as  a  bee,  this  man  came  over  to  Farmer 
Gray's,  and  said,  in  rather  a  petulant  tone  of  voice, 

"  Mr.  Gray,  I  wish  you  would  send  over,  and  drive 
your  geese  home." 

"  Why  so,  Mr.  Barton ;  what  have  my  geese  been 
doing?"  said  the  farmer,  in  a  mild,  quiet  tone. 

"  They  pick  my  pigs'  ears  when  they  are  eating,  and 
go  into  my  garden,  and  I  will  not  have  it !"  the  neigh- 
bour replied,  in  a  still  more  petulant  voice. 

"  I  am  really  sorry  for  it,  Neighbour  Barton,  but  what 
can  I  do  ?" 

"  Why,  yoke  them,  and  thus  keep  them  on  your  own 
premises.  It's  no  kind  of  a  way  to  let  your  geese  run 
all  over  every  farm  and  garden  in  the  neighbourhood." 

"  But  I  cannot  see  to  it,  now.  It  is  harvest-time, 
Friend  Barton,  and  every  man,  woman,  and  child  on  the 
farm  has  as  much  as  he  or  she  can  do.  Try  and  bear  it 
for  a  week  or  so,  and  then  I  will  see  if  I  can  possibly 
remedy  the  evil." 

"I  can't  bear  it,  and  I  won't  bear  it  any  longer  !"  said 
the  shoemaker.  "  So,  if  you  do  not  take  care  of  them, 
Friend  Gray,  I  shall  have  to  take  care  of  them  for  you." 

"  Well,  Neighbour  Barton,  you  can  do  as  you  please," 


276  THE    BUSHEL   OF   CORN. 

Farmer  Gray  replied,  in  his  usual  quiet  tone.  "  I  am 
sorry  that  they  trouble  you,  but  I  cannot  attend  to  them 
now." 

"I'll  attend  to  them  for  you,  see  if  I  don't,"  said  the 
shoemaker,  still  more  angrily  than  when  he  first  called 
upon  Farmer  Gray ;  and  then  turned  upon  his  heel,  and 
strode  off  hastily  towards  his  own  house,  which  was  quite 
near  to  the  old  farmer's. 

"  What  upon  earth  can  be  the  matter  with  them 
geese?"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  about  fifteen  minutes  after- 
wards. 

"  I  really  cannot  -tell,  unless  Neighbour  Barton  ia 
taking  care  of  them.  He  threatened  to  do  so,  if  I  didn't 
yoke  them  right  off." 

"  Taking  care  of  them  !    How  taking  care  of  them  ?" 

"  As  to  that,  I  am  quite  in  the  dark.  Killing  them, 
perhaps.  He  said  they  picked  at  his  pigs'  ears,  and 
drove  them  away  when  they  were  eating,  and  that  he 
wouldn't  have  it.  He  wanted  me  to  yoke  them  right 
off,  but  that  I  could  not  do,  now,  as  all  the  hands  are 
busy.  So,  I  suppose,  he  is  engaged  in  the  neighbourly 
business  of  taking  care  of  our  geese." 

"  John  !  William  !  run  over  and  see  what  Mr.  Barton 
is  doing  with  my  geese,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  in  a  quick  and 
anxious  tone,  to  two  little  boys  who  were  playing  near. 

The  urchins  scampered  off,  well  pleased  to  perform 
any  errand. 

"  Oh,  if  he  has  dared  to  do  anything  to  my  geese,  I 
will  never  forgive  him !"  the  good  wife  said,  angrily. 

"  H-u-s-h,  Sally  !  make  no  rash  speeches.  It  is  more 
than  probable  that  he  has  killed  some  two  or  three  of 


THE    BUSHEL   OF   CORN.  277 

them.  But  never  mind,  if  he  has.  He  will  get  over 
his  pet,  and  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  Yes ;  but  what  good  will  his  being  sorry  do  me  ? 
Will  it  bring  my  geese  to  life?" 

"  Ah,  well,  Sally,  never  mind.  Let  us  wait  until  wo 
learn  what  all  this  disturbance  is  about." 

In  about  ten  minutes  the  children  came  home,  bearing 
the  bodies  of  three  geese,  each  without  a  head. 

"  Oh,  is  not  that  too  much  for  human  endurance  ?" 
cried  Mrs.  Gray.  "  Where  did  you  find  them  ?" 

"  We  found  them  lying  out  in  the  road,"  said  the 
oldest  of  the  two  children,  "  and  when  we  picked  them 
up,  Mr.  Barton  said,  '  Tell  your  father  that  I  have  yoked 
his  geese  for  him,  to  save  him  the  trouble,  as  his  hands 
are  all  too  busy  to  do  it.' ' 

"  I'd  sue  him  for  it!"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  in  an  indignant 
tone. 

"  And  what  good  would  that  do,  Sally  ?" 

"  Why,  it  would  do  a  great  deal  of  good.  It  would 
teach  him  better  manners.  It  would  punish  him ;  and 
he  deserves  punishment." 

"  And  punish  us  into  the  bargain.  We  have  lost  three 
geese,  now,  but  we  still  have  their  good  fat  bodies  to  eat. 
A  lawsuit  would  cost  us  many  geese,  and  not  leave  us 
even  so  much  as  the  feathers,  besides  giving  us  a  world 
of  trouble  and  vexation.  No,  no,  Sally ;  just  let  it  rest, 
and  he  will  be  sorry  for  it,  I  know." 

"  Sorry  for  it,  indeed  !  And  what  good  will  his  being 
sorry  for  it  do  us,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  Next  he  will 
kill  a  cow,  and  then  we  must  be  satisfied  with  his  being 
sorry  for  it !  Now,  I  can  tell  you,  that  I  don't  believe 


278  THE   BUSHEL   OF   CORN. 

in  that  doctrine.  Nor  do  I  believe  anything  about  his 
being  sorry — the  crabbed,  ill-natured  wretch  !" 

"•  Don't  call  hard  names,  Sally,"  said  Farmer  Gray, 
in  a  mild,  soothing  tone.  "  Neighbour  Barton  was  not 
himself  when  he  killed  the  geese.  Like  every  other 
angry  person,  he  was  a  little  insane,  and  did  what  he 
would  not  have  done  had  he  been  perfectly  in  his  right 
mind.  When  you  are  a  little  excited,  you  know,  Sally, 
that  even  you  do  and  say  unreasonable  things." 

"  Me  do  and  say  unreasonable  things !"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Gray,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  indignant  astonish- 
ment; "me  do  and  say  unreasonable  things,  when  I  am 
angry  !  I  don't  understand  you,  Mr.  Gray." 

"  May-be  I  can  help  you  a  little.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber how  angry  you  were  when  Mr.  Mellon's  old  brindle 
got  into  our  garden,  and  trampled  over  your  lettuce-bed, 
and  how  you  struck  her  with  the  oven-pole,  and  knocked 
off  one  of  her  horns?" 

"  But  I  didn't  mean  to  do  that,  though." 

"  No ;  but  then  you  were  angry,  and  struck  old  Brin- 
dle with  a  right  good  will.  And  if  Mr.  Mellon  had  felt 
disposed,  he  might  have  prosecuted  for  damages." 

"  But  she  had  no  business  there." 

"  Of  course  not.  Neither  had  our  geese  any  business 
in  Neighbour  Barton's  yard.  But,  perhaps,  I  can  help 
you  to  another  instance,  that  will  be  more  conclusive,  in 
regard  to  your  doing  and  saying  unreasonable  things, 
when  you  are  angry.  You  remember  the  patent  churn  ?" 

"Yes;  but  never  mind  about  that." 

"  So  you  have  not  forgotten  how  unreasonable  you 
was  about  the  churn.  It  wasn't  good  for  anything — you 


THE   BUSHEL  OF   CORN.  279 

knew  it  wasn't ;  and  you'd  never  put  ajar  of  cream  into 
it  as  long  as  you  lived — -that  you  wouldn't.  And  yet, 
on  trial,  you  found  that  churn  the  best  you  had  ever 
used,  and  you  wouldn't  p-irtwith  it  on  any  considera- 
IJDU.  So  you  see,  Sally,  that  even  you  can  say  and  do 
unreasonable  things,  when  you  are  angry,  just  as  well 
is  Mr.  Barton  can.  Let  us  then  consider  him  a  little, 
uid  give  him  time  to  get  over  his  angry  fit.  It  will  bo 
much  better  to  do  so." 

Mrs.  Gray  saw  that  her  husband  was  right,  but  still 
she  felt  indignant  at  the  outrage  committed  on  her  geese. 
She  did  not,  however,  say  anything  about  suing  the 
shoemaker — for  old  Brindle's  head,  from  which  the  horn 
had  been  knocked  off,  was  not  yet  entirely  well,  and  one 
prosecution  very  naturally  suggested  the  idea  of  another. 
So  she  took  her  three  fat  geese,  and  after  stripping  off 
their  feathers,  had  them  prepared  for  the  table. 

On  the  next  morning,  as  Farmer  Gray  was  going  along 
the  road,  he  met  the  shoemaker,  and  as  they  had  to  pasa 
very  near  to  each  other,  the  farmer  smiled,  and  bowed, 
and  spoke  kindly.  Mr.  Barton  looked  and  felt  very 
uneasy,  but  Farmer  Gray  did  not  seem  to  remember  the 
unpleasant  incident  of  the  d;iy  before. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  of  the  same  day  that  one 
of  Farmer  Gray's  little  boys  came  running  to  him,  and 
crying, 

"  Oh,  father !  father !  Mr.  Barton's  hogs  are  in  our 
cornfield." 

**  Then  I  must  go  and  drive  them  out,"  said  Mr.  Gray, 
in  a  quiet  *onc. 

"Drive  them  outl"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Gray;  "drive 


280  THE   BUSHEL  OF   CORN. 

'em  out,  indeed!  I'd  shoot  them,  that's  what  I'd  do! 
I'd  serve  them  as  lie  served  my  geese  yesterday." 

"  But  that  wouldn't  bring  the  geese  to  life  again, 
Sally." 

"  I  don't  care  if  it  wouldn't.  It  would  be  paying  him 
in  his  own  coin,  and  that's  all  he  deserves." 

"You  know  what  the  Bible  says,  Sally,  about  griev- 
ous words,  and  they  apply  with  stronger  force  to  grievous 
actions.  No,  no,  I  will  return  Neighbour  Barton  good 
For  evil.  That  is  the  best  way.  He  has  done  wrong, 
and  I  am  sure  is  sorry  for  it.  And  as  I  wish  him  still 
to  remain  sorry  for  so  unkind  and  unneighbourly  an 
action,  I  intend  making  use  of  the  best  means  for  keep- 
ing him  sorry." 

"  Then  you  will  be  revenged  on  him,  anyhow." 

"  No,  Sally — not  revenged.  I  hope  I  have  no  such 
feeling.  For  I  am  not  angry  with  Neighbour  Barton, 
who  has  done  himself  a  much  greater  wrong  than  he  has 
done  me.  But  I  wish  him  to  sec  clearly  how  wrong  he 
acted,  that  he  may  do  so  no  more.  And  then  we  shall 
not  have  any  cause  to  complain  of  him,  nor  he  any  to 
be  grieved,  as  I  am  sure  he  is,  at  his  own  hasty  conduct. 
But  while  I  am  talking  here,  his  hogs  are  destroying  my 
corn." 

And  so  saying,  Farmer  Gray  hurried  off,  towards  his 
cornfield.  When  he  arrived  there,  he  found  four  large 
hogs  tearing  down  the  stalks,  and  pulling  off  and  eating 
Lhe  ripe  cars  of  corn.  They  had  already  destroyed  a 
good  deal.  But  he  drove  them  out  very  calmly,  and  put 
up  the  bars  through  which  they  had  entered,  and  then 
Commenced  gathering. up  the  half-eaten  ears  of  corn,  and 


THE   BUSHEL   OF  CORN.  281 

throwing  them  out  into  the  lane  for  the  hogs,  that  had 
been  so  suddenly  disturbed  in  the  process  of  obtaining 
a  liberal  meal.  As  he  was  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Barton, 
who  had  from  his  own  house  seen  the  farmer  turn  the 
hogs  out  of  his  cornfield,  came  hurriedly  up,  and  said, 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Gray,  indeed  I  am,  that  my 
hogs  have  done  tin's  !  I  will  most  cheerfully  pay  you  for 
uliut  they  have  destroyed." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  Friend  Barton — never  mind.  Such 
things  will  happen,  occasionally.  My  geese,  you  know, 
annoy  you  very  much,  sometimes." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,  Mr.  Gray.  They  didn't  annoy 
me  half  as  much  as  I  imagined  they  did.  But  how  much 
corn  do  you  think  my  hogs  have  destroyed  ?  One  bushel, 
or  two  bushels  ?  or  how  much  ?  Let  it  be  estimated,  and 
I  will  pay  for  it  most  cheerfully." 

"  Oh,  no.  Not  for  the  world,  Friend  Barton.  Such 
things  will  happen  sometimes.  And,  besides,  some  of 
my  men  must  have  left  the  bars  down,  or  your  hogs 
could  never  have  got  in.  So  don't  think  any  more  about 
it.  It  would  be  dreadful  if  one  neighbour  could  not 
bear  a  little  with  another." 

All  this  cut  poor  Mr.  Barton  to  the  heart.  His  own 
ill-natured  language  and  conduct,  at  a  much  smaller 
trespass  on  his  rights,  presented  itself  to  his  mind,  and 
deeply  mortified  him.  After  a  few  moments'  silence,  he 
said, 

"  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Gray,  I  shall  feel  better  if  you  will 
let  me  pay  for  this  corn.  My  hogs  should  not  be  fat- 
tened at  your  expense,  and  I  will  not  consent  to  its  be- 
fog done.  So  I  shall  insist  on  paying'  you  for  at  least 


282  THE   BUSHEL   OF  CORN. 

ont  bushel  of  corn,  for  I  am  sure  they  have  destroyed 
that  much,  if  not  more." 

But  Mr  Gray  shook  his  head  and  smiled  pleasantly, 
aa  ho  replied, 

"  Don't  think  anything  more  about  it,  Neighbour  Bar- 
ton. It  is  a  matter  deserving  no  consideration.  No 
doubt  my  cattle  have  often  trespassed  on  you  and  will 
trespass  on  you  again.  Let  us  then  bear  and  forbear." 

All  this  cut  the  shoemaker  still  deeper,  and  he  felt 
still  less  at  ease  in  mind  after  he  parted  from  the  farmer 
than  he  did  before.  But  on  one  thing  he  resolved,  and 
that  was,  to  pay  Mr.  Gray  for  the  corn  which  his  hogs 
had  eaten. 

"You  told  him  your  mind  pretty  plainly,  I  hope," 
said  Mrs.  Gray,  as  her  husband  came  in. 

"  I  certainly  did,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"  And  I  am  glad  you  had  spirit  enough  to  do  it !  I 
reckon  he  will  think  twice  before  he  kills  any  more  of 
sny  geese !" 

"  I  expect  you  are  right,  Sally.  I  don't  think  we 
shall  be  troubled  again." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  him  ?  And  what  did  he 
gay  for  himself?" 

"  Why  he  wanted  very  much  to  pay  me  for  the  corn 
his  pigs  had  eaten,  but  I  wouldn't  hear  to  it.  I  told 
him  that  it  made  no  difference  in  the  world ;  that  such 
accidents  would  happen  sometimes." 

"You  did?" 

"  Certainly,  I  did." 

"And  that's  the  way  you  spoke  your  mind  to  him  ?" 

"  Precisely.    And  it  had  the  desired  effect.     It  made 


THE   BUSHEL   OF   COUN.  283 

him  ft,-el  ten  ,imus  worse  than  if  I  had  spoken  angrily 
to  him.  He  is  exceedingly  pained  at  what  he  has  done, 
and  says  he  will  never  ivst  until  he  has  paid  for  that 
corn.  But  I  am  resolved  never  to  take  a  cent  for  it. 
[t  will  be  the  best  possible  guarantee  I  can  have  for  his 
kind  and  neighbourly  conduct  hereafter." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  after 
a  few  moments  of  thoughtful  silence.  "I  like  Mis. 
Barton  very  much — and  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  1 
should  not  wish  to  have  any  difference  between  our 
families." 

"  And  so  do  I  like  Mr.  Barton.  He  has  read  a  good 
deal,  and  I  find  it  very  pleasant  to  sit  with  him,  occa- 
sionally, during  the  long  winter  evenings.  His  only 
fault  is  his  quick  temper — but  I  am  sure  it  is  much  bet- 
ter for  us  to  bear  with  and  soothe  that,  than  to  oppose 
and  excite  it,  and  thus  keep  both  his  family  and  our  own 
in  hot  water." 

"You  are  certainly  right,"  replied  Mrs.  Gray;  "and 
I  only  wish  that  I  could  always  think  and  feel  as  you 
do.  But  I  am  a  little  quick,  as  they  say." 

"And  so  is  Mr.  Barton.  Now  just  the  same  consi- 
deration that  you  would  desire  others  to  have  for  you, 
should  you  exercise  towards  Mr.  Barton,  or  any  one  else 
whose  hasty  temper  leads  him  into  words  or  actions  that, 
.'n  calmer  and  more  thoughtful  moments,  are  subjects 
rf  regret." 

On  the  next  day,  while  Mr.  Gray  stood  in  his  OAvn 
door,  from  which  he  could  see  over  the  two  or  three 
acres  of  ground  that  the  shoemaker  cultivated,  he  ob- 
Berved  two  of  his  cows  in  his  neighbour's  cornfield, 


284  THE   BUSHEL   OF   CORN. 

browsing  away  in  quite  a  contented  manner.  A3  he 
was  going  to  call  one  of  the  farm  hands  to  go  over  and 
drive  them  out,  he  perceived  that  Mr.  Barton  had  bo- 
come  aware  of  the  mischief  that  was  going  on,  and  had 
alieady  started  for  the  field  of  corn. 

"Now  we  will  see  the  effect  of  yesterday's  lesson," 
Baid  the  farmer  to  himself;  and  then  paused  to  observe 
the  manner  of  the  shoemaker  towards  his  cattle  in  driv- 
ing them  out  of  the  field.  In  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Barton 
came  up  to  the  cows,  but,  instead  of  throwing  stones  at 
them,  or  striking  them  with  a  stick,  he  merely  drove 
them  out  in  a  quiet  way,  and  put  up  the  bars  through 
which  they  had  entered. 

"  Admirable  !"  ejaculated  Farmer  Gray. 

"What  is  admirable?"  asked  his  wife,  who  came 
within  hearing  distance  at  the  moment. 

"  Why  the  lesson  I  gave  our  friend  Barton  yesterday. 
It  works  admirably." 

"  How  so?" 

"  Two  of  our  cows  were  in  his  cornfield  a  few  minutes 
ago,  destroying  the  corn  at  a  rapid  rate." 

"  Well !  whet  did  he  do  to  them  ?"  in  a  quick,  anxious 
tone. 

"  He  drove  them  out." 

"  Did  he  stone  them,  or  beat  them  ?" 

"  Oh  no.     He  was  gentle  as  a  child  towards  them." 

"You  are  certainly  jesting." 

"  Not  I.  Friend  Barton  has  not  forgotten  that  liig 
pigs  were  in  my  cornfield  yesterday,  and  that  I  turned 
them  out  without  hurting  a  hair  of  one  of  them.  Now, 
suppose  1  had  got  angry  and  beaten  his  pigs,  v»hat  du 


THE   BUSIIEL  OP   CORN.  285 

you  think  the  result  would  have  been  ?  Why,  It  is  much 
more  thuu  probable  that  one  or  both  of  our  fine  cows 
would  have  been  at  this  moment  in  the  condition  of  Mr. 
Mellon's  old  Brindle." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  anything  more  about  old 
Brindle,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  trying  to  laugh,  while  her 
face  grew  red  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  keep  down  her 
feelings. 

"  Well,  I  won't,  Sally,  if  it  worries  you.  But  it  ia 
*uch  a  good  illustration  that  I  can't  help  using  it  some- 
times." 

"  I  am  glad  he  didn't  hurt  the  cows,"  said  Mrs.  Gray, 
after  a  pause. 

"  And  so  am  I,  Sally.  Glad  on  more  than  one  ac- 
count. It  shows  that  he  has  made  an  effort  to  keep 
down  his  hasty,  irritable  temper — and  if  he  can  do  that, 
it  will  be  a  favour  conferred  on  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood, for  almost  every  one  complains,  at  times,  of  this 
fault  in  his  character." 

"  It  is  certainly  the  best  policy,  to  keep  fair  weather 
with  him,"  Mrs.  Gray  remarked,  "for  a  man  of  his  tem- 
per could  annoy  us  a  good  deal." 

"  That  word  policy,  Sally,  is  not  a  good  word,"  re- 
plied her  husband.  "  It  conveys  a  thoroughly  selfish 
idea.  Now,  we  ought  to  look  for  some  higher  motives 
of  action  than  mere  policy — motives  grounded  in  correct 
«ind  unselfish  principles." 

"  But  what  other  motive  but  policy  could  we  possibly 
have  for  putting  up  with  Mr.  Barton's  outrageous  con- 
duct ?" 

"  Other,  and  far  higher  motives,  it  seems  to  me.    W« 


286  THE   BUSHEL   OF   CORN. 

should  reflect  that  Mr.  Barton  has  naturally  a  hasty 
temper,  and  that  when  excited  he  does  things  for  which 
he  is  sorry  afterwards — and  that,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  he  is  a  greater  sufferer  from  those  outbreaks  than 
any  one  else.  In  our  actions  towards  him,  then,  it  is  a 
much  higher  and  better  motive  for  us  to  be  governed  by 
a  desire  to  aid  him  in  the  correction  of  this  evil,  than  to 
look  merely  to  the  protection  of  ourselves  from  its  effects. 
Do  you  not  think  so  ?" 

"Yes.     It  does  seem  so." 

"  When  thus  moved  to  action,  we  are,  in  a  degree, 
regarding  the  whole  neighbourhood,  for  the  evil  of  which 
we  speak  affects  all.  And  in  thus  suffering  ourselves  to 
be  governed  by  such  elevated  and  unselfish  motives,  we 
gain  all  that  we  possibly  could  have  gained  under  the 
mere  instigation  of  policy — and  a  great  deal  more.  But 
to  bring  the  matter  into  a  still  narrower  compass.  In  all 
our  actions  towards  him  and  every  one  else,  we  should 
be  governed  by  the  simple  consideration — is  it  right? 
If  a  spirit  of  retaliation  be  not  right,  then  it  cannot  be 
indulged  without  a  mutual  injury.  Of  course,  then,  it 
should  never  prompt  us  to  action.  If  cows  or  hogs  get 
into  my  field  or  garden,  and  destroy  my  property,  who 
is  to  blame  most  ?  Of  course,  myself.  I  should  have 
kept  my  fences  in  better  repair,  or  my  gate  closed.  The 
animals,  certainly,  are  not  to  blame,  for  they  follow  only 
the  promptings  of  nature ;  and  their  owners  should  not 
be  censured,  for  they  know  nothing  about  it.  It  would 
then  be  very  wrong  for  me  to  injure  loth  the  animala 
and  their  owners  for  my  own  neglect,  would  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes, — I  suppose  it  would." 


THE   BUSHEL  OF  C011N.  287 

"  So,  at  least,  it  seems  to  me.  Then,  of  course,  I 
ought  not  to  injure  Neighbour  Barton's  cows  or  hogs, 
even  if  they  do  break  into  my  cornfield  or  garden,  sim- 
ply because  it  would  be  wrong  to  do  so.  This  is  the 
principle  upon  which  we  should  act,  and  not  from  any 
selfish  policy." 

After  this  there  was  no  trouble  about  Farmer  Gray's 
geese  or  cattle.  Sometimes  the  geese  would  get  among 
Mr.  Barton's  hogs,  and  annoy  them  while  eating,  but  it 
did  not  worry  him  as  it  did  formerly.  If  they  became 
too  troublesome  he  would  drive  them  away,  but  not  by 
throwing  sticks  and  stones  at  them  as  he  once  did. 

Late  in  the  fall  the  shoemaker  brought  in  his  bill  for 
work.  It  was  a  pretty  large  bill,  with  sundry  credits. 

"Pay-day  has  come  at  last,"  said  Farmer  Gray,  good- 
humouredly,  as  the  shoemaker  presented  his  account. 
"  Well,  let  us  see  !"  and  he  took  the  bill  to  examine  it 
item  after  item. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked,  reading  aloud. 

"  '  Cr.     By  one  bushel  of  corn,  fifty  cents.'  " 

"  It's  some  corn  I  had  from  you." 

"  I  reckon  you  must  be  mistaken.  You  never  got  ::nv 
corn  from  inc." 

"  Oh,  yes  I  did.  I  remember  it  perfectly.  It  is  all 
right." 

"  But  when  did  you  get  it,  Friend  Barton  ?  I  am 
sure  that  I  haven't  the  most  distant  recollection  of  it." 

"My  hogs  got  it,"  the  shoeuaker  said,  in  rather  f 
low  and  hesitating  tone. 

"  Your  hogs !" 


288  THE  Busnr.i.  OF  COHN. 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  remember  when  my  hogs  broke 
into  your  field,  and  destroyed  your  corn  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear  !  is  that  it  ?  Oh,  no,  no,  Friend  Barton  ! 
I  cannot  allow  that  item  in  the  bill." 

"  Yes,  but  you  must.  It  is  perfectly  just,  and  I  shall 
never  rest  until  it  is  paid." 

"I  can't,  indeed.  You  couldn't  help  the  hogs  getting 
into  my  field  ;  and  then  you  know,  Friend  Barton  (low- 
ering his  tone),  my  geese  were  very  troublesome !" 

The  shoemaker  blushed  and  looked  confused  ;  but 
Farmer  Gray  slapped  him  familiarly  on  the  shoulder, 
and  said,  in  a  lively,  cheerful  way, 

"  Don't  think  any  more  about  it,  Friend  Barton !  And 
hereafter  let  us  endeavour  to  '  do  as  we  would  be  dono 
by,'  and  then  everything  will  go  on  as  smooth  as  clock- 
work." 

';But  you  will  allow  that  item  in  the  bill?"  the  shoe- 
maker urged  perse veringly. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  couldn't  do  that.  I  should  think  it  wrong 
to  make  you  pay  for  my  own  or  some  of  my  men's  negli- 
gence in  leaving  the  bars  down." 

"  But  then  (hesitatingly),  those  geese — I  killed  three. 
Let  it  go  for  them." 

"  If  you  did  kill  them,  we  ate  them.  So  that  is  even. 
No,  no,  let  the  past  be  forgotten,  and  if  it  makes  better 
neighbours  and  friends  of  us,  AVC  never  need  regret  what 
has  happened." 

Farmer  Gray  remained  firm,  and  the  bill  was  settled, 
omitting  the  item  of  "  corn."  From  that  time  forth  he 
never  had  a  better  neighbour  than  the  shoemaker.  The 
cowr,  hogs,  and  geese  of  both  would  occasionally  tres- 


THE   ACCOUNT.  289 

pass,  but  the  trespassers  were  always  kindly  removed. 
The  lesion  was  not  lost  on  cither  of  them — for  even 
Furmci  Uray  used  to  feel,  sometimes,  a  little  annoyed 
whoi  Ins  neighbour's  cattle  broke  into  his  field.  l>ut  in 
teaching  the  shoemaker  a  lesson,  he  had  taken  u  linif 
of  it  himself. 


TJIE    ACCOUNT. 

THE  clock  frr/in  the  city  hall  struck  one; 

The  merchant's  task  was  not  yet  done  ; 

He  knew  the  old  year  was  passing  away, 

Ami  his  accounts  must  all  he  settled  that  day: 

He  must  know  for  a  truth  how  much  he  should  win, 

So  fast  the  money  was  rolling  in. 

He  took  the  last  cash-hook  from  the  pile, 

And  lie  summed  it  up  with  a  happy  smile; 

For  a  just  and  upright  man  was  lie, 

Dealing  with  all  most  righteously, 

And  now  he  was  sure  how  much  ho  should  win. 

How  fast  the  money  was  rolling  in. 

Ho  heard  not  the  soft  touch  on  the  door — 
He  heard  not  the  tread  on  the  carpeted  floor- 
So  still  was  her  coming,  he  thought  him  alone, 
Till  she  spake  in  a  sweet  and  silvery  tone: 
"Thou  knowcst  not  yet  how  much  thou  shall  win- 
llow  fast  the  money  is  rolling  in." 

Then  from  'nenth  her  white,  fair  arm,  she  took 
A  golden  clapped,  and  beautiful  book — 
19 


296  CONTENTMENT  BETTER  THAN   WEALTH. 

"  T!H  my  account  thou  hast,  to  pay, 

J-.  the  coining  of  the  Now  Year's  day — 

Read — ere  tliou  knowest  how  much  thou  shall  w:a. 

How  fast  the  money  is  rolling  in." 

He  open'd  the  clasps  with  a  trembling  hand — 
Therein  was  Charity's  firm  demand  : 
"To  the  widow,  the  orphan,  the  needy,  the  poor, 
Much  owest  thou  of  thy  yearly  store  ; 
Give,  ere  thou  knowest  how  much  thou  shall  win- 
While  fast  the  money  is  rolling  in." 

The  merchant  took  from  his  box  of  gold 

A  goodly  sum  fur  the  lady  bold  ; 

His  heart  was  richer  than  e'er  before, 

As  she  bore  the  prize  from  the  chamber  door. 

Ye  who  would  know  how  much  ye  can  win, 

Give,  when  the  money  is  rolling  in. 


CONTENTMENT  BETTER  THAN  WEALTH. 

"  IT  is  vain  to  urge,  Brother  Robert.  Out  into  the 
world  I  must  go.  The  impulse  is  on  me.  I  should  die 
of  inaction  here." 

"  You  need  not  be  inactive.  There  is  work  to  do.  I 
gi,all  never  be  idle." 

"And  such  work  !  Delving  in,  and  grovelling  close  to 
llie  ground.  And  for  what?  Oh,  no,  Robert.  My  am- 
bition soars  beyond  your  '  quiet  cottage  in  a  sheltered 
vale.'  My  appetite  craves  something  more  than  simple 
Leibs,  and  water  from  the  brook.  I  have  set  my  heart 


CONTENTMENT  BET1ER  THAN    WEALTH.  291 

on  attaining  wealth  ;  and  where  tb  ,-re  is  a  will  there  is 
always  a  way/* 

"  Contentment  is  better  tha'i  /ealth." 

"  A  proverb  for  drone/?." 

"  No,  William,  it  is  a  pr/v,-rb  for  the  wise." 

"  Bo  it  for  the  wise  or  simple,  as  commonly  under- 
stood, it  is  no  proverb  fo*.  me.  As  a  poor  plodder  along 
the  way  of  life,  it  Avcre  impossible  for  me  to  know  con- 
tent. So  urge  no  farther,  Robert.  I  am  going  out  into 
\\\c  world  a  wealth-seeker,  and  not  until  wealth  is  gained 
do  I  purpose  to  return." 

"What  of  Ellen,  Robert?" 

The  young  man  turned  quickly  towards  hia  brother, 
visibly  disturbed,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  him  wif't  an 
earnest  expression. 

"  I  love  her  as  my  life,"  he  said,  with  a  strong  em- 
phasis on  his  words. 

44  Do  you  love  wealth  more  than  life,  William 'f 

"  Robert !" 

"  If  you  love  Ellen  as  your  life,  and  leave  her  fvr  tlin 
sake  of  getting  riches,  then  you  must  love  money  more 
than  life." 

"  Don  t  talk  to  me  after  this  fashion.  I  love  her  ten- 
derly and  truly.  I  am  going  forth  as  well  for  her  sake 
as  my  own.  In  all  the  good  fortune  that  comes  as  a 
rucod  of  effort,  she  will  be  the  sharer." 

"  You  will  see  her  before  you  leave  us  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  will  neither  pain  her  nor  myself  by  a  parting 
interview.  Send  her  this  letter  and  this  ring." 

A  few  hours  later,  and  the  brothers  stood  with  tightly- 
grasped  hands,  gazing  into  each  other'a  faces. 


292  CONTENTMENT   BETTER   THAN    WEALTH. 

"  Farewell,  Robert." 

"  Farewell.  William.  Think  of  the  old  homestead  aa 
still  your  home.  Though  it  is  mine,  in  the  division  of 
our  patrimony,  let  your  heart  come  back  to  it  as  yours. 
Think  of  it  as  home ;  and,  should  Fortune  cheat  you 
with  the  apples  of  Sodom,  return  to  it  again.  Its  door? 
will  ever  be  open,  and  its  hearth-fire  bright  for  you  as 
of  old.  Farewell  !" 

And  they  turned  from  each  other,  one  going  out  into 
the  restless  world,  an  eager  seeker  for  its  wealth  and 
honours  ;  the  other  to  linger  among  the  pleasant  places 
dear  to  him  by  every  association  of  childhood,  there  to 
fill  up  the  measure  of  his  days — not  idly,  for  he  was  no 
drone  in  the  social  hive. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day  two  maidens  sat  alone, 
each  in  the  sanctuary  of  her  own  chamber.  There  was 
a  warm  glow  on  the  cheeks  of  one,  and  a  glad  light  in 
her  eyes.  Pale  was  the  other's  face,  and  wet  her  droop- 
ing lashes.  And  she  that  sorrowed  held  an  open  letter 
in  her  hand.  It  was  full  of  tender  words ;  but  the 
writer  loved  wealth  more  than  the  maiden,  and  had  gone 
forth  to  seek  the  mistress  of  his  soul.  He  would  "  come 
back,"  but  when?  Ah,  what  a  veil  of  uncertainty  was 
upon  the  future  !  Poor,  stricken  heart !  The  other 
maiden — she  of  the  glowing  cheeks  and  dancing  eyes — 
held  also  a  letter  in  her  hand.  It  was  from  the  brother 
of  the  wealth-seeker ;  and  it  was  also  full  of  loving 
words ;  and  it  said  that,  on  the  morrow,  he  would  come 
to  bear  her  as  his  bride  to  his  pleasant  home.  Happy 
maiden ! 


CONTENTMENT   BETTER   THAN    WEALTH.  293 

Ten  years  have  passed.  And  what  of  the  wcalth- 
seeker  ?  lias  he  won  the  glittering  prize?  What  of  the 
pale-faced  maiden  he  left  in  tears?  Has  he  returned  to 
her?  Does  she  share  now  his  wealth  and  honour  '!  Nol 
since  the  day  he  went  forth  from  the  home  of  his  child- 
hood has  a  word  of  intelligence  from  the  wanderer  been 
received  ;  and  to  those  he  left  behind  him  he  is  as  one 
who  has  passed  the  final  bourne.  Yet  he  still  dwells 
among  the  living. 

In  a  far-away,  sunny  clime  stands  a  stately  mansion. 
We  will  not  linger  to  describe  the  elegant  interior,  to 
hold  up  before  the  reader's  imagination  a  picture  of 
rural  beauty,  exquisitely  heightened  by  art,  but  enter 
its  spacious  hall,  and  pass  up  to  one  of  its  most  luxuri- 
ous chambers.  How  hushed  and  solemn  the  pervading 
atmosphere!  The  inmates,  few  in  number,  are  grouped 
around  one  on  whose  white  forehead  Time's  trembling 
finder  has  written  the  word  "  Death!"  Over  her  bends 

O 

a  manly  form.  There — his  face  is  towards  you.  Ah  ! 
you  recognise  the  wanderer — the  wealth-seeker.  What 
does  he  here?  What  to  him  is  the  dying  one  ?  His 
wife!  And  has  he,  then,  forgotten  the  maiden  whose 
dark  lashes  lay  wet  on  her  pale  checks  for  many  hours 
after  she  read  his  parting  words  ?  He  has  not  forgot- 
ten, but  been  false  to  her.  Eagerly  sought  he  the  prize, 
to  contend  for  which  he  went  forth.  Years  came  and 
departed  ;  j'et  still  hope  mocked  him  with  ever-attractive 
and  ever-fading  illusions.  To-day  he  stood  with  his 
hand  just  ready  to  seize  the  object  of  his  wishes,  to- 
morrow a  shadow  mocked  him.  At  last,  in  an  evil  hour, 


j!94  CONTENTMENT   BETTER   THAN   WEALTH. 

lie  bowed  down  his  manhood  prostrate  even  to  the  dust 
in  woman  worship,  and  took  to  himself  a  bride,  rich  in 
golden  attractions,  hut  poorer  as  a  woman  than  ever  the 
beggar  at  her  father's  gate.  What  a  thorn  in  -his  side 
she  proved  !  A  thorn  ever  sharp  and  ever  piercing. 
The  closer  he  attempted  to  draw  her  to  his  bosom,  the 
deeper  went  the  points  into  his  own,  until,  in  the  anguish 
of  his  soul,  again  and  again  he  flung  her  passionately 
from  him. 

Five  years  of  such  a  life !  Oh,  what  is  there  of 
earthly  good  to  compensate  therefor  ?  But  in  this  last 
desperate  throw  did  the  worldling  gain  the  wealth,  sta- 
tion, and  honour  he  coveted  ?  He  had  wedded  the  only 
child  of  a  man  whose  treasure  might  be  counted  by  hun- 
dreds of  thousands ;  but,  in  doing  so,  he  had  failed  to 
secure  the  father's  approval  or  confidence.  The  stern 
old  man  regarded  him  as  a  mercenary  interloper,  and 
ever  treated  him  as  such.  For  five  years,  therefore,  he 
fretted  and  chafed  in  the  narrow  prison  whose  gilded 
bars  his  own  hands  had  forged.  How  often,  during  that 
time,  had  his  heart  wandered  back  to  the  dear  old  home, 
and  the  beloved  ones  with  whom  he  had  passed  his  early 
yeans!  And,  ah  1  how  many,  many  times  came  between 
him  and  the  almost  hated  countenance  of  his  wife  tho 
gentle,  the  loving  face  of  that  one  to  whom  he  had  been 
false !  How  often  her  soft  blue  eyes  rested  on  his  own  ! 
How  often  he  started  and  looked  up  suddenly,  as  if  her 
awcet  voice  came  floating  on  the  air! 

And  so  the  years  moved  on,  the  chain  galling  more 
deeply,  arid  a  bitter  sense  of  humiliation  as  well  as  bond- 
age robbing  him  of  all  pleasure  in  his  life 


CONTENTMENT   BETTER   THAN    WEALTH.  295 

Thus  it  is  Avith  him  when,  after  ten  years,  AVC  find  him 
waiting,  in  the  chamber  of  death,  for  the  stroke  that  la 
to  break  the  fetters  that  so  long  have  bound  him.  It 
has  fallen.  He  is  free  again.  In  dying,  the  sufferer 
made  no  sign.  Suddenly  she  plunged  into  the  dark  pro- 
found, so  impenetrable  to  mortal  eyes,  and  as  the  turbid 
waves  closed,  sighing  over  her,  he  who  had  called  her 
wife  turned  from  the  couch  on  which  her  frail  body  re- 
mained, with  an  inward  "Thank  God!  I  am  a  man 
again  !" 

One  more  bitter  dreg  yet  remained  for  his  cup.  Not 
a  week  had  gone  by  ere  the  father  of  his  dead  wife  spoke 
to  him  these  cutting  words  : — 

"  You  were  nothing  to  me  while  my  daughter  lived — 
you  are  less  than  nothing  to  me  now.  It  was  my  wealth, 
not  my  child  you  loved.  She  has  passed  away.  What 
affection  would  have  given  to  her,  dislike  will  never  be- 
stow on  you.  Henceforth  we  are  strangers." 

When  the  next  sun  went  down  on  that  stately  man- 
sion, which  the  wealth-seeker  had  coveted,  he  was  a  wan- 
derer again — poor,  humiliated,  broken  in  spirit. 

How  bitter  had  been  the  mockery  of  all  his  early 
hopes  !  How  terrible  the  punishment  he  had  suffered  ! 

One  more  eager,  almost  fierce  struggle  with  alluring 
fortune,  with  which  the  worldling  came  near  steeping 
his  soul  in  crime,  and  then  fruitless  ambition  died  in  his 
bosom. 

"  My  brother  said  well,"  he  murmured,  as  a  ray  of 
light  fell  suddenly  on  the  darkness  of  his  spirit:  "  'con- 
tentment is  better  than  wealth.'  Dear  brother !  Pear 


296  CONTENTMENT  BETTER   THAN    WEALTH. 

old  home!  Sweet  Ellen!  Ah,  why  did  I  leave  you? 
Too  lato  !  too  late  !  A  cup,  full  of  the  wine  of  life,  waa 
at  my  lips ;  but  I  turned  my  head  away,  asking  for  a 
more  fiery  and  exciting  draught.  How  vividly  comes 
before  me  now  that  parting  scene  !  I  am  looking  into 
my  brother's  face.  I  feel  the  tight  grasp  of  his  hand. 
His  voice  is  in  my  ears.  Dear  brother !  And  his  part- 
ing words,  I  hear  them  now,  even  more  earnestly  than 
when  they  were  first  spoken.  '  Should  fortune  cheat 
you  with  the  apples  of  Sodom,  return  to  your  home 
again.  Its  doors  will  ever  be  open,  and  its  hearth-fires 
bright  for  you  as  of  old.'  Ah,  do  the  fires  still  burn  ? 
How  many  years  have  passed  since  I  went  forth  !  And 
Ellen  ?  Even  if  she  be  living  and  unchanged  in  her 
affections,  I  can  never  lay  this  false  heart  at  her  feet. 
Her  look  of  love  would  smite  me  as  with  a  whip  of  scor- 
pions." 

The  step  of  time  has  fallen  so  lightly  on  the  flowery 
path  of  those  to  whom  contentment  was  a  higher  boon 
than  wealth,  but  few  footmarks  were  visible.  Yet  there 
had  been  changes  in  the  old  homestead.  As  the  smiling 
years  went  by,  each,  as  it  looked  in  at  the  cottage  win- 
dow, saw  the  home  circle  widening,  or  new  beauty 
crowning  the  angel  brows  of  happy  children.  No  thorn 
to  his  side  had  Robert's  gentle  wife  proved.  As  time 
passed  on,  closer  and  closer  was  she  drawn  to  his  bosom  ; 
yet  never  a  point  had  pierced  him.  Their  home  was  a 
type  of  Paradise. 

It  is  near  the  close  of  a  summer  day.  The  evening 
meal  is  spread,  and  they  are  about  gathering  round  tho 
table,  when  a  stranger  enters.  His  words  are  vague 


CONTENTMENT   BETTER   THAN    WEALTH.  297 

and  brief,  his  manner  singular,  his  air  slightly  myste- 
rious. Furtive,  yet  eager  glances  go  from  face  to  face. 

"  Are  these  all  your  children?"  he  asks,  surprise  an! 
admiration  mingling  in  his  tones. 

"  All  ours,  and,  thank  God,  the  little  flock  is  yet  un- 
broken." 

The  stranger  averts  his  face.  He  is  disturbed  by 
emotions  that  it  is  impossible  to  conceal. 

"  Contentment  is  better  than  wealth,"  he  murmurs. 
"  Oh  that  I  had  comprehended  the  truth." 

The  words  Avere  riot  meant  for  others ;  but  the  utter- 
ance had  been  too  distinct.  They  have  reached  the  ears 
of  Robert,  who  instantly  recognises  in  the  stranger  hia 
long-wandering,  long-mourned  brother. 

"William!" 

The  stranger  is  on  his  feet.  A  moment  or  two  the 
brothers  stand  gazing  at  each  other,  then  tenderly  em- 
brace. 

"  William !" 

How  the  stranger  starts  and  trembles !  He  had  not 
seen,  in  the  quiet  maiden,  moving  among  and  minister- 
ing to  the  children  so  unobtrusively,  the  one  he  had 
parted  from  years  before — the  one  to  whom  he  had  been 
so  false.  But  her  voice  has  startled  his  cars  with  the 
familiar  tones  of  yesterday. 

"Ellen!"  Here  is  an  instant  oblivion  of  all  tho 
intervening  years.  He  has  leaped  back  over  the  gulf, 
and  stands  now  as  he  stood  ere  ambition  and  lust  for 
gold  lured  him  away  from  the  side  of  his  first  and  only 
love.  It  is  well  both  for  him  and  the  faithful  maiden 
that  he  cannot  so  forget  the  past  as  to  take  her  in  hia 


298  RAINBOWS    EVERYWHERE. 

arms  and  clasp  her  almost  wildly  to  his  heart.  But  for 
this,  conscious  shame  would  have  betrayed  his  deeply- 
repented  per6dy. 

And  here  we  leave  them,  reader.  "  Contentment  is 
better  than  wealth."  So  the  worldling  proved,  after  a 
bitter  experience,  which  may  you  be  spared  !  It  is  far 
better  to  realize  a  truth  perceptibly,  and  thence  make 
it  a  rule  of  action,  than  to  prove  its  verity  in  a  life  of 
sharp  agony.  But  how  few  are  able  to  rise  into  such  » 
realization ! 


RAINBOWS  EVERYWHERE. 

BEXDIXG  over  a  steamer's  side,  a  face  looked  down 
into  the  clear,  green  depths  of  Lake  Erie,  where  the 
early  moonbeams  were  showering  rainbows  through  the 
dancing  spray,  and  chasing  the  white-crusted  waves  with 
serpents  of  gold.  The  face  was  clouded  with  thought, 
a  shade  too  sombre,  yet  there  glowed  over  it  something 
like  a  reflection  from  the  iris-hues  beneath.  A  voice  of 
musing  was  borne  away  into  the  purple  and  vermilion 
haze  that  twilight  began  to  fold  over  the  bosom  of  the 
lake. 

u  Rainbows  !  Ye  follow  me  everywhere  !  Gloriously 
your  arches  arose  from  the  horizon  of  the  prairies,  when 
the  storm -king  and  the  god  of  day  met  within  them  to 
proclaim  a  treaty  and  an  alliance.  You  spanned  the 


RAINBOWS   EVERYWHKRE.  299 

Father  of  Waters  with  a  bridge  that  put  to  the  laugh 
man's  clumsy  structures  of  chain,  and  timber,  and  uiro. 
You  floated  in  a  softening  veil  before  the  awful  grandeur 
of  Niagara ;  and  here  you  gleam  out  from  the  light  foam 
in  the  steamboat's  wake. 

u  Grateful  am  I  for  you,  oh  rainbows !  for  the  clouds, 
the  drops,  and  the  sunshine  of  which  you  are  wrought, 
and  for  the  gift  of  vision  through  which  my  spirit  quaffs 
the  wine  of  your  beauty. 

"  Grateful  also  for  faith,  which  hangs  an  ethereal  halo 
over  the  fountains  of  earthly  joy,  and  wraps  grief  in 
robes  so  resplendent  that,  like  Iris  of  the  olden  time, 
she  is  at  once  recognised  as  a  messenger  from  Heaven. 

".Blessings  on  sorrow,  whether  past  or  to  come  !  for 
in  the  clear  shining  01  neavetny  love,  every  tear-drcp. 
becomes  a  pearl.  The  storm  ot  affliction  crushes  weak 
human  nature  to  the  dust;  the  glory  of  the  eternal 
light  overpowers  it ;  but,  in  the  softened  union  of  both, 
the  stricken  spirit  beholds  the  bow  <>f  promise,  and 
knows  that  it  shall  not  utterly  be  destroyed.  When  yre 
say  that  for  us  there  is  nothing  but  darkness  and  tears, 
it  is  because  we  are  weakly  brooding  over  the  shadows 
within  us.  If  we  dared  look  up,  and  face  our  sorrow, 
we  should  see  upon  it  the  seal  of  God's  love,  and  be 
calm. 

"  Grant  me,  Father  of  Light,  whenever  my  eyes  droop 
heavily  with  the  rain  of  grief,  at  least  to  see  the  reflec- 
tion of  thy  signet-bow  upon  the  waves  over  which  I  am 
sailing  unto  thee.  And  through  the  steady  toiling  of 
the  voyage,  through  thp  smiles  and  tears  of  every  day's 


SOO  RAINBOWS   EVERYWHERE. 

progress,  let  the  iris-flash  appear,  even  as  now  it  bright' 
ens  the  spray  that  rebounds  from  the  labouring  wheels." 
The  voice  died  away  into  darkness  which  returned  no 
answer  to  its  murmurings.  The  face  vanished  from  the 
boat's  side,  but  a  flood  of  light  was  pouring  into  tho 
gorenc  depths  of  a  trusting  soul. 


Thfc EUO 


